


lessons exquisitely crafted

by evocates



Series: a revolution for the sake of one man [4]
Category: Les Misérables (Dallas 2014), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Javert Survives, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, Execution, F/M, Government, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Law Procedures, M/M, Politics, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prison, Recovery, Revolution, Revolutionary Rhetoric, Weddings, Worldbuilding, plot without porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2016-06-11
Packaged: 2018-05-17 09:23:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 143,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5863666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evocates/pseuds/evocates
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“<i>So we just hold on fast / Acknowledge the past / As lessons exquisitely crafted / Painstakingly drafted / To carve us as instruments / That play the music of life.</i>”</p><p>Once, there was a revolution that started for the sake of one man. But revolutions do not end after a day; a country could not be rebuilt based on changing a single law.</p><p>Still, this revolution is led by those who have looked upon history and learned from it; by those who looked upon the faces of those who suffered and said, <i>no more</i>. And so change comes: slow, halting, meeting with obstacles every turn, but utterly inexorable.</p><p>Sequel to <i>all sinners crawl</i>, covering the 18 years that passed between the ending of the fic and Epilogue 2. Please don’t read this before reading <i>all sinners crawl</i>, because nothing will make sense. <b>Posting is complete.</b>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One, 2136

**Author's Note:**

> I promised January. It is still January. I'm on time, I swear.
> 
> This is not finished at the time of posting. I have twelve chapters done. Hopefully that is enough for me to have a buffer time between writing and editing, and posting. Aha.
> 
> Title and parts of the summary from Vienna Teng’s _Eric’s Song_. As you can see, this is one of my favourite songs for this fic, and I like using lyrics as titles.
> 
> Beta'd by the lovely kikibug13, who also did lots of handholding and cheerleading. ♥

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A slave finds freedom. An ex-convict is called for a deathbed visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Book I: _revolution_  
>  Chapter 1: One, 2136**
> 
> **Warnings:** More Brick references (and allusions) and worldbuilding than you can shake a stick at. Also, Roma OC, the same one as before.

“Monsieur le Président of the Cour de Cassation, our leader, said during M. Pontmercy’s last trial that the Cour should not simply judge if laws have been applied fairly throughout the country, but to judge the justice and righteousness of the law itself.”

The judge for this particular case was a man named M. de Courfeyrac. Javert knew very little about him except for the fact that Marius had paled paper-white at the sound of the name. _A showman_ , M. Gillenormand had said, his lips curling in to a sneer, and Javert privately agreed.

His eyes darted towards the defendant’s stand. Khulai stood there, chains weighing down his shoulders, gaze fixed upon the floor. This had been his entire pose throughout the trial, unmoving and unchanged except during Marius’s impassioned pleas for his freedom. He had stared at Marius with wide eyes then, lips moving soundlessly as if in prayer, or trying to make himself believe that the words spilling from Marius’s tongue were real.

Javert remembered a man utterly irreverent, constantly joking and dancing throughout the camps. Sometimes he wove bells in his long hair, their slightly muffled jingling different from the larger bells at his wrists and ankles. He had pulled a quiet, overly solemn _gadjo_ boy into his dances; had sat him down and spread out cards in front of him and spun ridiculous stories of Kings and Queens and Knaves, of Priestesses and Emperors and Swords.

That man seemed so far away now, chased away like faeries at the sight of steel; made to flee like knights in the face of treachery. Yet Javert found himself hoping, somehow, that he was not lost forever.

“During M. Pontmercy’s first trial,” M. de Courfeyrac continued, “Monsieur le Président also told us about the necessity of looking upon history to discover the reasons for our laws. Why is it that we punish theft and fraud as harshly as we do manslaughter? Simple: food was scarce, and money almost meaningless in the wake of the civil wars: to steal, to cheat, might have ended up in the death of the victims. From starvation, from suicide, from hopelessness.”

He shook his head. “Perhaps we are still stuck in those days. Yet…” His eyes moved away from looking at the audience towards Khulai, then Marius. Seated beside Javert, Frey placed a hand on the side of his camera-glasses, and followed M. de Courfeyrac’s gaze.

“In his argument, M. Pontmercy declared that the right to eat should be universal, and the right to live should be basic.”

Sighing, he rested his hands on the judge’s stand. “Is that true? Should we forget that the crash of our economy, the catalyst to the civil wars, was due to citizens being given all that we now strive so hard for – food, shelter, education, even peace – such things were given without being fought for and were thus taken for granted? Should we forget that the end of desperation and need is also the end of motivation?

“No, we should not. Those are not the days we can return to; not if we are to hold onto the peace we have held so hard to.”

The courtroom was utterly silent, every single person’s attention fixed upon M. de Courfeyrac. His eyes lifted, and he looked straight at Frey, a small smile curving up the corners of his lips. 

“But M. Pontmercy is right. None should be forced into criminality for the basic want to survive. None should be persecuted and made into a lesser being for a need that even animals are granted.”

Smile widening, M. de Courfeyrac leaned forward, his eyes scanning the audience before returning to look at Khulai, who was staring at him with widened eyes.

“Perhaps what we must find now is an in-between; a medium between giving all and giving none. For Monsieur le Président was right: ‘The law is unjust, and it is the role of the Cour de Cassation now to repair this injustice.’ With that, I declare that the defendant is from thence forth never to be a slave. He is to be freed, and there will be reparations made for all those years he has been enslaved under an unjust law.”

He took a deep breath, as if steeling himself. 

“It’s long past time that we start to treat our citizens as they should be treated: as humans, as people, and not as beasts to be corralled or chained.”

Nodding sharply, M. de Courfeyrac turned from the stands. “Court is adjourned,” he said, and stepped away from the judge’s stand.

Javert started pushing his way through the members of the audience, ignoring Frey’s in-drawn breath at that particular ending of the trial. Before he could pass by Khulai, he heard M. Courfeyrac murmur, as if to himself:

 _“You’ve left behind so much to accomplish, brother, but I’ll do all I can_. _I won’t let you die for nothing, so rest in peace now._ ”

He froze in his tracks, turning to stare after the man as he exited the entrance of the courtroom. The sound of the opening door seemed to revitalise the audience, and many rushed towards the man, hands on camera-glasses and mouths moving rapidly – reporters. But Javert ignored them all, his mind running over those whispered words over and over.

A judge with a brother who died for the cause of setting free the enslaved of this country… For the first time, he found himself regretting not remembering or knowing those schoolboys at the barricades better. Had there been a de Courfeyrac there?

“I had a friend once,” Marius said, coming up next to him. His voice was soft, but Javert started anyway, turning towards him. But Marius was not looking at him, his eyes fixed upon the courtroom’s door and his gaze faraway. 

“He liked to think of himself as a knight fighting for the honour of those who could not protect themselves,” Marius continued. “He was charming and witty and brilliant, though he never matched Combeferre when it comes to philosophy. He teased as easily as he breathed, but he was so kind as well: he was the first I met of my friends, and it was he who offered me money and lodgings whenever I found myself without either.”

Marius’s hand shakily drew through his hair. “His name was Courfeyrac. And that was… I think that was his older brother.”

Carefully, gently, Javert placed his hand on Marius’s shoulder. Marius didn’t respond, didn’t even seem to feel it, his eyes staring blankly into the distance. 

Javert knew that look. He stepped in front of Marius, raising his hands to slap him on both cheeks. Marius’s entire body jerked, but the emptiness in his eyes disappeared as he stared at Javert.

“Your friend is dead, but his legacy carries on,” he said, knowing he was being blunt but not knowing how else he could wake Marius from his reverie of the past. He was not Cosette; he was not Valjean; he had little gentleness to give, only a crooked sort of sympathy. 

“That’s something to hold onto, at least,” he finished gruffly.

But perhaps that sympathy was what Marius needed. Cosette was lingering back at the audience’s stands still – he could feel the weight of her gaze on them – there must be a reason why she wasn’t coming to her fiancé’s side at the moment.

“It is,” Marius said. He ducked his head, sniffing quietly as he rubbed his knuckles over his eyes and nose. “But I just… I just wish that he didn’t have to be _dead_ for something to be done. I just wish that he’s here to see this.”

 _I think they would be proud of me_ , Marius had told him a year ago, his voice faraway and his eyes full of ghosts. Javert sighed.

“If I’ve learned anything,” he said slowly, “it is that we shouldn’t linger on the past, but should push forward to the future.”

Marius’s head jerked upwards, and he blinked. Before the boy could say a word, or even open his mouth, Javert shrugged.

“I didn’t say that I learned that well,” he stated wryly.

That seemed to snap something loose in Marius, because the boy laughed. It was a shaky sound, still too hollow by far to be sincere, but it was _something_. Javert gave him a lopsided smile – still unpractised and surely odd to see – before he took a step back and let Cosette take his place.

She smiled at him, bright and blinding. Javert opened his mouth without even knowing what to say, but Cosette was already turning away, kissing Marius’s hair as she held him close and allowed him to lean against her.

Taking a deep breath, Javert looked away from them. He walked towards the defendant’s stand again, stopping just in front of Khulai.

The chains had been removed, and now Khulai had his head tipped back, his body entirely still as one of the handlers from the auction house went through the motions of removing his collar. The thing sparked slightly as it opened, and Khulai winced as it was pried further open before being taken off entirely.

It left behind a slice of skin five shades paler than the rest of him; a mark of the collar that would surely fade faster from his body than the years spent in slavery from his mind.

As the handler stepped away – a man with an unfamiliar face who made a double-take when he saw Javert but whom he ignored entirely – Javert leaned forward, elbows resting against the banister of the stand.

He waited.

“I know it was you,” Khulai said finally, his voice low. He wasn’t looking at Javert, instead staring at his wrists and rubbing them together as if unused to the weight of them. “It was you who convinced that _gadjo_ to take my case in the first place.”

Javert’s eyebrow quirked up slightly. “He set you free,” he said, waving a vague hand towards Khulai. “And you’ll still call him that?”

Khulai snorted. He shifted from foot to foot, toes rubbing against his ankles, before he seemed to make a decision of some sort and leaned against the side of the stand.

“A _gadjo_ pulled my soft flesh from the shell,” he stated blankly. “An outside-demon looked at me and called me fraud, called me thief. An outside-demon wrapped strings around my flesh, made me bleed, made me slave. And now, an outside-demon tears away those strings and sets me free.”

He barked a laugh, hollow and sharp, tearing through the air. Javert wondered if he even noticed that he had slipped from French to Romani during his speech. He wondered, too, at his own ability to understand every single word despite the decades that had separated him from those who used to speak that language to him.

“My life seems to be at the whims of demons. Ridiculous.”

“Maybe there are different types of demons,” Javert said, his own speech halting from lack of use. “Just like there are different types of men.”

Khulai jerked, his eyes narrowing as he stared at Javert. “Ah, the cuckoo still chirps in the same voice as the trueborn chicks,” he said. Slowly, he cocked his head. “How does the cuckoo even remember?”

“Some things you don’t forget,” Javert said in French. He took a deep breath, and rubbed his hand over the back of his neck, and switched back to Romani.

“The falcon flies far and sees widely, but his first nest will always be more than a speck in his eyes.”

“Falcon suits you well, cuckoo,” Khulai said, c _huuhu_ half in whisper and _riezo_ louder. Javert somehow found the strength to not gape. “The demons tamed you, tied strings to your feet and sent you hunting over the trueborn chicks. Now you still have strings, but you also have a cage and you’ve tamed the demons within it.”

“I have no capacity of taming,” Javert shook his head, his eyes darting towards Marius. The young man was murmuring into Cosette’s ear. “He is not a tamed demon. Just a man.”

“His ankles have not felt the chill of our bells. His heart has not followed the beat of our drums. His skin has not been lit by the warmth of the fire.” Khulai’s eyes followed his eyes towards Marius as well. “He is no man.”

There was doubt in his voice. Javert smiled wryly.

“Bells have not touched his ankles, but blood has. Drums did not reach his heart, but passion has. Fire has not lit his skin, but it is in his veins.” He cocked his head. “Have you not felt the same?”

“Once I did, but the strings shredded my muscles and turned my blood into ice.” Khulai said. His head dropped, and he dragged a hand through his shorn-short hair. “Is that not enough? Must the demons and the cuckoo crash my world asunder on the cliffs as well?”

Javert closed his eyes to hide away from the alleyway that threatened to fill his vision. Now was not the time, he scolded himself, and steadied himself by digging nails into his palms.

“Muscles heal. Ice melts,” he said softly. Opening his eyes, he met Khulai’s gaze, his lips quirking up slightly. “The cracked shells can be repaired with gold and care, creating beauty out of the broken.”

Khulai snorted, jerking his head away. “What know you of the struggling clam with the broken shell when you were always the seagull armed with rock?”

“Even the seagull has a nest that can be destroyed,” Javert returned. “Even the falcon can be lost. My world has been a ship, wrecked upon the cliffs. The hull has been repaired and though the sails are still torn, the ship limps towards the horizon.”

“Whose hands are those who repaired the hull?” Khulai raised an eyebrow.

“A man,” Javert said easily. His eyes turned away from him, scanning the room. But Valjean was not there – he had received an urgent call that morning to go to a hospital in Auvergne, and had left immediately – so he shifted his gaze towards Marius again. 

“A man who saved the one who freed you, and who has never been a demon though he has never known the bells or the campfire.”

“There are no such men,” Khulai said without conviction in his tone. “There have only been demons armed with strings.”

“Beneath demons’ skins can hide the soft flesh of men,” Javert said quietly. “The hands who stitch on those skins are men themselves.”

He shook his head, pushing away from the stand and shoving his hand into his pockets. “You do not have to take my eyes as yours, Khulai. There are no more strings around you. Return to the bells, the drums, and the fire. But do not forget the man in a demon’s skin who has cut those strings.”

Khulai’s eyes widened, darting beyond Javert’s shoulder towards Marius again. “Demons always asked for reparations for their services,” he said.

“There are no more strings around you,” Javert repeated. He stepped away from the stand, turning slightly. “Ask him if you do not believe me.”

Ignoring Khulai’s frown and expectant gaze, he stood where he was. Slowly, Khulai nodded, and Javert watched as he took first one step, then another. His legs were shaky, coming down a little too hard on the wooden floorboards as he walked towards Marius.

From a distance away, Javert became a spectator as Marius tried to reassure Khulai that he wanted nothing for his supposed services, constantly shaking his head. There was a crease between his brows, and his hands hovered in the air between him and Khulai as he tried to make the other man believe him.

It was Cosette who managed to convince him in the end, reaching out between the gulf between their bodies to take Khulai’s hands into his own. Javert watched as dark eyes widened, staring down at Cosette’s small hands, before he lifted them to her face and the small, sweet smile that curved her lips.

Finally, he nodded. Javert laughed to himself at the sheer look of relief on Marius’s face. He stifled half of it when Khulai turned, meeting his eyes and beckoning him forward with a jerk of his head. 

Javert walked towards him. Now, without distractions, without the press of the crowd, he was more aware of the limp in his left leg. Broken and then healed, but the crack still remained, aching whenever it rained.

“On the outskirts of Paris,” Khulai began. “The nest of the trueborn chicks is large.”

He hesitated before he nodded jerkily, looking away from Javert. He looked at the doors of the courthouse and, dragging his hand through his hair again, started moving towards it.

Hands clenching once more in his pockets, he stared at Khulai’s back. He knew the meaning of those parting words, but it almost seemed too much to believe. 

“It sounded beautiful,” Cosette said, her voice dragging Javert out of his revelry. He blinked, looking at her.

“The language he just spoke,” she said, most likely noticing his confusion. “It’s beautiful.”

In front of the courtroom doors, Khulai looked behind him again. He met Javert’s gaze, holding onto it before he took a deep breath, and stepped through the threshold. Slowly, with every step, his back straightened, and his shoulders squared.

“Yes,” Javert said quietly. “It is.”

“What is it?” Marius asked.

“Romani,” he replied, finally tearing his eyes away from Khulai.

“I learned it as a child,” he continued, shrugging slightly at the look of confusion on Marius’s face. “It’s the language of my childhood home.”

Those words, kept within for so long, seemed to come almost too easily to his tongue.

***

Valjean looked once more at the map in his hand, hand-drawn from the directions that the nun had given him on the phone during the call this morning, and then back up. 

The building in front of him had a yellowed signboard declaring: _Saint Camillus Mission Hospital of Auvergne_.

It was the same name as he was given, but he somehow still had doubts. The place was even more run-down than Frey’s school, and seemed even more destitute than the poorest parts of Paris. And it was situated barely a kilometre away from the central station where the din of every passing train could be heard: surely that wasn’t good for the patients?

Shaking his head to himself, he stepped through the doors.

There was a nun seated behind her desk. Despite the youthfulness of her features, there was a terrible age and weariness writ in the gentle gauntness of her cheeks and in the deep, dark bags drawn beneath her eyes. Immediately, Valjean’s heart went out to her, and he swallowed slightly – berating himself for his uncharitable thoughts before – and walked towards the desk.

Her head jerked up, and her eyes widened. “M. Valjean?” she asked.

Strange: it had been a year since he was given back his real name, and yet Valjean still had the urge to shake his head, to claim that he was Fauchelevent instead. He stifled it down, instead nodding.

“Yes,” he said. “You called me regarding one of your patients wanting to see me, and asked me to come as soon as possible.” He paused, and jerked his shoulders into an awkward shrug. “Well, I’m here.”

“I didn’t expect you to come today!” the nun said. She paused before shaking her head hard. “Not that I do not wish for you to, of course. In fact…” Her lips curved into a small, uncertain smile.

“Well, your presence here is certainly a blessing from God Himself,” she said, eyes drifting upwards to the crucifix – a little worn, but obviously well-cared for – that hung above the desk. “I don’t think he has much time left to wait.”

Valjean blinked. “You didn’t mention the name of the man who wished to see me so badly,” he said hesitantly.

“Oh!” her hand covered her mouth, and she looked embarrassed for a moment. “Forgive me. It’s just… he means a great deal to me, Monsieur. He is a gentle man, terribly kind and polite despite all he’s gone through, and it’s… it’s horrible, how little all of us could do for his sake.”

She shook her head hard. “Forgive me,” she said, stepping out from behind the desk. She bowed towards him, a little too low. “I’m Sister Patientia, and…” her eyes darted down the hallway.

“The patient’s name is Champmathieu.”

In the middle of trying to get her to stop bowing without having to touch her, Valjean’s breath stopped in his throat. He opened his mouth, then closed it.

That was a name he had not heard in a long time; a name that he had not expected to ever hear again. He looked at her with wide, staring eyes, running a shaking hand over his scalp.

“Oh,” he said finally. Utterly inadequate, but there was nothing else he could think to say.

“He said that you would likely not remember at him at all,” Sister Patientia said, her voice soft and infinitely gentle. Her eyes dropped towards her hands. “But you do, don’t you, Monsieur?”

“I…” Valjean swallowed. “I remember.” Of course he did; how could he forget about the reason why he went to Arras in the first place, especially after all the tumult made in the past year about his confession in court.

But he had rushed back towards Montreuil-sur-Mer almost immediately after the trial, leaving Champmathieu behind. And during all these years, he had not even tried to find out where the man had gone; had soothed himself by thinking that he had set the man to freedom and surely now that he was no longer under the threat of lifelong imprisonment, he would be fine.

He was a fool.

“Please,” he said, taking another step towards Sister Patientia. His hand hovered in the air. “Take me to him.”

“Of course,” Sister Patientia said. She gave him a smile, a little hesitant, before she turned on her heel and walked down the hallways.

There was paint peeling off of the walls, and the metal benches set outside each ward were slightly rusted on the legs. Valjean shoved his hands into his pockets, stifling the urge to reach out and try to do something about the place. It would be insulting to simply offer money, he knew, and he would not take away the pride that was so evident in every step Sister Patientia took down the hallway.

They stopped in front of a door. The nun glanced at him out of the corner of his eyes for a moment.

“He, or the other patients in the ward, might still be asleep,” she murmured. “Please, let’s step softly.”

Valjean nodded. She opened the door.

Immediately, he recognised the man who was lying in the metal-framed bed furthest to the door. The bald head, the very thing that had caused three other ex-convicts to have thought him to be Valjean, rested upon a thin pillow, and there were sparse, white hairs on his lip and chin. Valjean knew that Champmathieu was around his own age, but the man half-dozing in the hospital bed seemed more seventy than fifty.

Swallowing hard, he picked up one of the metal chairs resting against the wall and walked over to the bed. He tried to put it down as gently as possible, but a leg scraped against the bare concrete anyway.

Champmathieu opened his eyes. He squinted a little, looking around. Valjean held his breath as he turned, and found his head spinning when the man smiled upon the sight of him.

“Monsieur,” he said, his voice barely a rasp and so, so disbelieving. “You came. You’re _here_.”

“Yes,” Valjean choked out. When Champmathieu raised his hands – so pale that the green veins were clearly visible, so stark that the bones protruded at the knuckles and wrists – he took them and held them tightly within his own.

“I’m here, Monsieur.”

“Oh no,” Champmathieu said, half-jerking upwards. Valjean immediately stood, a hand pressing against a thin shoulder and slowly lowering him back down to lie on the bed.

Softly, the man sighed. He smiled, a weak thing that appeared only at the corners of his mouth and eyes. “You’re a very good man, Monsieur, to call an old useless fellow like me by a title like that.”

Valjean swallowed, shaking his head. His eyes burned, but he refused to let the tears fall, smiling instead. “It’s what you deserve,” he whispered, hand squeezing Champmathieu’s shoulder.

“It’s very long since anyone called me that,” Champmathieu told him quietly. “The nuns here do, of course, they are good people. Such good people…” he trailed off for a moment, eyes lidding heavily. But before Valjean could urge him to rest, they snapped open again, and Champmathieu stared at him.

Or through him. Valjean could not tell at this point.

“In my youth, they called me ‘young fellow’,” he said, shoulders shaking a little. “Then when I grew older, just past the age of forty, they called me ‘old fellow’.”

He sighed quietly. “You see, I was a mechanic on the trains,” he said. “And it’s a hard job, most of the time done in the open because you can’t put trains in sheds, could you? Some of the supervisors and owners, they are good men, really, because they allowed us to take the engines out to the covered garages. But they are hard to find, and I know better to hope that every man would be the same way… In a job like that, a man is old by the age of forty, because that’s when he can’t keep up with the machines any longer…”

Valjean squeezed his shoulder again. He didn’t know why Champmathieu was telling him this – perhaps just for someone to tell – but he listened, nonetheless.

“I was forty-eight when I found myself in Paris, you know,” he said, his gaze shifting aimlessly around the room before focusing on Valjean again, brows furrowed. “It should have been easy to tell that I’m not you, Monsieur, because our birth dates were different. But my birth wasn’t recorded properly. When they thought I was you, they insisted that I was born in Faverolles.

“Maybe they were right,” he continued contemplatively. “All I knew during my time was being on the roads, following the train tracks. My father was a train mechanic too, you see, and he taught me his craft. It’s a little silly of him to, really, because train mechanics grew more and more unnecessary as time passed and money was harder to earn honestly… But what else could he have taught me, really? My father wasn’t a clever man, and he couldn’t see into the future.”

Champmathieu shook his head. Gently, Valjean squeezed his shoulder again.

“How did I end up in Paris? I don’t even remember, Monsieur. My memory’s going. Maybe because I heard about there being need for mechanics there… the central station is the biggest in the country, of course. But I remember being on the road, walking towards Paris because the trains were too expensive to ride, and I kept looking back for my daughter… But she was gone. She was dead by then, you know, Monsieur.”

Valjean didn’t even know the man had a daughter. He swallowed hard again, and forced himself to nod.

“I know,” he said gently. “But I don’t know anything about her. Will you tell me?”

“Mm,” Champmathieu made a sound, shifting a little on the bed. He winced, and Valjean stroked his shoulder gently.

“She was a good girl, my daughter. Quiet most of the time, placid… Her mother died when she was only two, you know, and she started working as a servant in some of the big houses whenever we went. But she was never quick enough for them. The masters and mistresses always told her that she was too slow, that their automated machines could do much better work faster than her…” He sighed. 

“She tried, she really did. She did the best she could, and she was always so tired… When she returned home, she always wanted to fall to sleep, but she had to make food for her husband. He was a scoundrel, that one; he drank away so much of our money and never worked. He even beat her, and I could never really stop him when he did. He always did it when I was at work, you see, and he laughed in my face every time.”

Unbidden, Valjean’s thoughts turned to Cosette. He knew that Marius was a gentle soul, and he would not have raised a hand against her even if the barricades had not scored deep wounds within him that constantly bled and turned him away from violence. But how many women, how many girls, were as lucky as his Cosette?

“No father should have to bury their child, Monsieur,” Champmathieu continued. He shuddered hard, remembered grief wreaking through his body. Valjean squeezed those emaciated hands in his, and brushed his fingers over his face.

Slowly, Champmathieu’s eyes focused on him again, shifting away from the blank hollowness that he had dwelled upon during his recollections. He smiled at Valjean quietly.

“I’m telling you this, Monsieur, because you didn’t hear it during that trial,” he said. “You came so suddenly, right when they were about to sentence me. You didn’t hear it. Everyone else heard it, and they laughed at me.” He swallowed hard, eyes falling close. “Maybe it’s my fault. Maybe it’s because I’m not an educated man. I didn’t speak as well as the lawyers, or the judge, or anyone else…”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Valjean said, keeping his voice steady. He remembered the white faces of the judge and lawyers and even the members of the audience who were watching; remembered how they had recognised him and were so shocked when he showed his brand that they didn’t even stop him when he walked straight back out of the courthouse.

All he had offered Champmathieu then was a hand on his shoulder. He should have done more. Perhaps not then if he was to remain free to comfort Fantine during her last moments and to bring Cosette away from the horrible Thénardiers, but he should have done much more later on in Paris.

“They were unkind to you, Monsieur,” he said quietly. “And I have not been fair to you either.”

“Oh no,” Champmathieu shook his head hard, shaking away Valjean’s hand as he tried to soothe him back to restfulness. “Oh no, Monsieur. You were very fair. You were very kind. You didn’t need to have gone to Arras. You didn’t need to have come here. What am I but an old fellow you didn’t even know?”

Valjean swallowed. He searched for words, and found not his but the Bishop’s; the same words that were inked into his bones despite the long years since the saint had changed his life.

“You’re my brother,” he said softly.

From his own voice the words seemed so terribly inadequate, lacking the power that was in the Bishop’s. But Champmathieu stared at him nonetheless, wide-eyed. Tears spilled down his cheeks all of the sudden, and he jerked in the bed. Tremulously, half-blindly, he raised Valjean’s hand, wrapped as it was around his own, and pressed his lips against it.

“Monsieur,” he choked out. “You have no idea what that means to me, Monsieur.”

Wrapping his free arm around Champmathieu’s shoulders, he helped the man sit up. It was a little awkward, given the narrowness of the bed, but he pulled the other man into his arms, holding him close as Champmathieu wept. He shushed him quietly as Champmathieu repeated “ _Monsieur, Monsieur, Monsieur_ ” over and over again, and closed his eyes in grief for this man who had been so wronged and yet he had done – and could now do – so little.

“My brother,” he repeated. “It’s alright. Rest now. I’ll be with you.”

“Surely- surely you have more important affairs to attend to?” Champmathieu asked, raising his eyes. This much closer, Valjean could see that they were slightly filmed-over, the sign of great age in a man who should not have aged so quickly.

Swallowing hard, he tried for a smile. “There’s nothing more important than staying here with you,” he told him.

He squeezed the thin body gently, feeling the brittleness of the bones beneath the loose skin. Valjean did not know what sickness ailed Champmathieu so; didn’t know what he had gone through in those years since Arras that led him here to Auvergne. But he knew one thing:

This man did not have long left to live.

“Thank you, Monsieur,” Champmathieu said, sounding so grateful that Valjean felt wretchedly guilty all over again. “Oh, Monsieur, you really are a saint. You really are.”

“I’m not,” he shook his head. A saint would have done more; a saint would not have allowed Champmathieu to have landed in these dire straits in the first place. A saint, Valjean knew, would not have forgotten about the man like he had.

Valjean knew, in that one moment, how much he had failed the man throughout these years while he was in Paris, feeling happy while with Cosette. He could not turn back time; he could not reverse his mistake. Now, it seemed that all he could do was to stay here beside him; to give him comfort. His mind already started to make plans: calls to make, reasons to give. He would not leave Champmathieu now.

Stroking Champmathieu’s thin arm gently, over and over, he soothed him as much as he could through the man’s tears. His hand brushed once or twice over his neck, feeling the rapid, uneven pulse, and his own eyes burned from it even as he pushed back the tears once again. His chest ached and chill surrounded him.

He continued to soothe Champmathieu with steady hands and nonsensical words. After long moments, the sobs subsided, and Champmathieu’s eyes fell closed. Keeping his own breathing even and his mind calm, he continued his ministrations until he felt Champmathieu’s breathing even out and he fell back asleep.

Slowly, gently, he laid the man back on the bed. He weighed no more than a doll. Gently, he plucked some tissues from the nightstand and wiped away the tears from that gaunt face. He sniffled once, and scrubbed a tissue over his own eyes before he sank down on the metal chair and held his head in his hands.

All he wished, in that moment, was for Javert to be beside him.

A foolish thought; he dismissed it immediately. Javert was far away in Paris, and he surely had better things to do than to comfort an old man in his guilt. And Valjean was being selfish, terribly so, for lingering on thoughts of himself when there was someone who needed him at the moment.

He took a deep breath, lifting his head and looking around the room. There were seven other beds in the ward, all of them filled with dying men, and they all seemed to be sleeping the deep sleep of those who did not wish to wake. Unbidden, his hands clenched inside his pockets, and he gave Champmathieu one last glance before he walked out of the ward to find Sister Patientia.

Perhaps money was not the solution. But he wished to help in _some_ way. Perhaps it was a selfish wish to alleviate the guilt that was gnawing at the very depth of his being, but he could not help himself.

She was not at the desk. Valjean leaned against it for a moment, wrung out beyond words, before his hand scrambled in his pockets for his mobile. Without even knowing what he was doing, he was already punching in a number.

Months ago, Cosette had bought another phone line and practically shoved it towards Javert despite the man’s protests, stating that he had a habit of infiltrating dangerous places and they needed to know how he was beyond a tracking device. And Valjean was glad, incredibly glad, of his daughter’s wisdom now.

“Valjean?” Javert’s voice came over immediately, sounding a little distracted.

“Javert,” he breathed. Somehow, the sound of that familiar and beloved voice eased the ache within him. He bit the inside of his cheek. “Is… is the trial over?”

“You didn’t call me for that,” Javert said. “What’s wrong?”

Valjean laughed. It was a terribly shaky sound, almost unlike himself. He licked his lips.

“I… Do you have time?”

“Well, there’s a lot for me to do, all of which starting with ‘n’ and ending with ‘othing,’” Javert said impatiently. “So talk.”

Javert’s voice, that irrepressible irritation he had whenever Valjean circled around matters instead of getting straight into the heart of them, was so terribly reassuring.

Taking another breath, Valjean wiped away his tears. In the background, beyond the even, steady sounds of Javert’s breathing, he could hear footsteps and the soft _thud_ of a body meeting couch cushions.

“I’m at the hospital in Auvergne,” he started.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The very different way in which Khulai and Javert spoke to each other in Romani is entirely deliberate, and it’s a technique I stole from Wole Soyinka’s _Death and the King’s Horseman_ wherethe native, colonised culture speaks in lyrical verse filled with metaphors. (It is an absolutely brilliant play; go read it.) 
> 
> The translation of ‘gadjo’ into ‘outside-demons’ isn’t something that’s a direct translation – most translations just mention that it’s a disparaging term to refer to outsiders. The addition of ‘demon’ something I stole flagrantly from Chinese and Japanese communities whenever they talk about whites to their own people, especially in white-dominated places such as America.
> 
> I really, really couldn’t find enough research about the Roma people, so I stole techniques from literature of other cultures that have gone through similar – though very different – traumas and diasporas. I hope that’s okay. Please, please tell me if there’s something offensive in my portrayal, and I’ll fix it the best I can.
> 
> Also, a lot of Champmathieu’s dialogue and his life story are taken straight from the Brick: Volume 1, Book 7, Chapter 10: A System of Denials. All I did was to adapt it to this futuristic Dystopian ‘verse. I couldn’t improve on genius, so I stole instead. (Basically, most of this chapter is me stealing from better writers.)


	2. Two, 2137

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A slave and his daughter watches the execution of a condemned man. A bastard asks the slave for the permission to court a former prostitute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> **Book I Chapter 2: Two, 2137**  
> 
> 
> **Warnings:** Very explicit description of execution via electric chair and a horrific prison system. Explicit portrayal of parental abuse, the death of a parent, and attempted recovery from the trauma of both. Essentially, this world is in the process of being fixed, but it was, and still is, absolutely terrible.

The prison – ‘correctional facilities’ – of Toulon was a massive structure of steel and brick. High walls towered above, reaching for the skies like the hands of the convicts who would never again be able to see it without feeling the weight of their collar and chains, or even smell the sea breeze without the heavy scent of rusting metal.

In the distance was a roof that reached higher than any other, belching smoke at periodic intervals. The ovens used to cremate the convicts’ bodies were already working; there were other executions today.

It was the season for such things, Javert supposed.

As they walked down the narrow path that led to the centre of the prison – led by a guard fully-uniformed and visored despite the blazing summer heat – Azelma pressed herself closer to him, her hand tightening on his elbow. Javert glanced towards her with a thousand words stuck in his throat that he could not form properly, much less voice.

“I don’t know what to think,” she murmured. “Should I be happy that now he will be gone and I can move on? Or… or should I feel horrible for even thinking about being happy about him being gone?”

Pulling her even closer, Javert kept his eyes on the gun strapped to the thigh of the guard. He tried to hold onto the image of the freckle-faced boy in the uniform; tried to remind himself that this guard, too, had a face, and that change always came slowly. What happened in Paris would not have spread as far south as Toulon in only two short years.

“That’s not a thing I can tell you,” he told her, keeping his own voice low. “It’s… something you have to decide for yourself.”

Azelma nodded. Her hand had tightened so much around his elbow that Javert knew that there would be bruises left, but he made no protest because he knew that she needed it; needed the reassurance that there was someone there beside her.

He swallowed back the instinctive question about why she had chosen him instead of Frey to come with her: he already knew. Frey would not have understood: no number of books he read or stories he heard would ever let him know what it was like to have a convict for a parent, or to head somewhere with the sole purpose of seeing their parent dead.

Truth to be told, Javert did not fully understand either. The emotions he once felt were so far away, and muted even further by the fact that he had never known his father, much less loved him; not like the way that Azelma did. Perhaps that was a stroke of luck. He knew that the man he once was would think of it that way.

But that man was long gone, and Javert was no longer sure about how he felt about this – all of this – anymore.

The guard led them towards the very centre of the facility. Javert placed his hand on Azelma’s as they stepped into the main room.

Holograms surrounded them: walls, each barely higher than two metres; bunk beds, rusty metal scantily covered by plastic and thin mattresses, lined the walls; in the corner of each cell, an open toilet buzzing with flies.

Men in chains dragging their ankles, dressed in blazing orange jumpsuits that seared the eyes, some ripped at the hems. Some stooped as they walked, feet dragging, from one end of their cell to another, scraping their heads along the ceiling, their shoulders hunching even more than the rest. These men moved quickly only at their work stations, their movements puppy-jerky, controlled both by batons slapping rhythmically to the palms of more faceless guards and the endless, mindless movements of the conveyor belt.

Snatches of conversation, all turned low: muted and indecipherable, the voices of men blended into each other.

There was no smell; nothing of the stench of shit and rot and sweat and despair that permeated each wall. But Javert knew it well; could feel it weigh on his tongue even now. His head spun. He bit the inside of his cheek.

Once, long years ago when he was a prison guard, Javert heard that the prison was built upon an idea called the panopticon. Nothing the convicts did, whether it was sleeping, eating, working, or even shitting, escaped the notice of the guards; the same guards who now stood around this main room, one to each corner, their faces fixed forward, invisible eyes surely forever cataloguing and watching the prisoners.

One of them waved a hand. The holograms shifted, one magnifying and moving forward until it stopped in front of Javert and Azelma.

It was a broad-shouldered man, once muscular but now emaciated, his hair cropped short, hands cuffed behind his back. His lips drew back as he snarled at the guards around him, stumbling as they pushed and shoved at him. One of them smacked his batons across the side of his head, splitting the skin of his temple. Blood dripped down the side of his face, seeping into his ragged beard, staining the pristine orange of his jumpsuit.

Azelma’s eyes were wide. Her nails dug into Javert’s arm. 

Perhaps Thénardier deserved this, for all that he had done and all that he had tried to do. Yet, somehow, Javert could not help but feel pity towards him. Pity, and a strange sort of twisting rage deep in his belly – not towards Thénardier himself, but for the daughter who was by Javert’s side who had to see her father so reduced.

Turning, Javert pulled her even closer, resisting the urge to shield her from the sight.

“We are obliged to ask if you wish to watch the execution here or in the execution room itself.”

The man who spoke had recently entered. Unlike the rest of the guards, his face was bare: white, early-forties, with salt-and-pepper hair and deep wrinkles on his forehead and the sides of his mouth. Javert looked at him, and could not recall his name.

“I…” Azelma started. She took a deep breath before straightening up until she was standing by her own, no longer leaning on Javert.

“The execution room please, Monsieur.”

A still-dark eyebrow rose, but the head guard thankfully made no comment. He only nodded before turning around, his shoes making an all-too-familiar click on the concrete ground. Once, that had been a source of pride for him, watching how prisoners had flinched at the sound. Then, he felt the fear himself, and tasted pride of a different sort – the twisted thing that came from the confirmation of his beliefs.

Now… now he only clenched his hand above Azelma’s, and tried to remind himself that this trip had nothing to do with him at all.

They followed the head guard out of the main room towards another hallways. It wasn’t much different from the ones Javert had seen on the screens: the only difference was that, instead of bars separating prisoners from guards, there were heavy metal doors separating the guards from the prisoners. His lips twisted involuntarily. His own collar and chain, smaller and lighter than the prisoners’, weighed heavily on his neck and shoulders.

He focused his attention entirely on his feet. One step, then another. It was all very familiar.

The head guard stopped in front of a metal door. Here, in this hallway, was the line of separation: a single metre of difference between the bars of the execution room and the door leading to where spectators were to watch. Azelma trembled, head ducked down, as they stepped inside.

“You don’t have to do this,” Javert told her. _You don’t have to watch him die_.

“I have to,” Azelma replied, her voice barely above a whisper. “I have to, or I’m going to imagine this for the rest of my life.”

Javert stopped. The head guard was closing the door, hovering around them, but Javert ignored him as he reached out and tipped Azelma’s head up. Her eyes were dry but red-rimmed. He cupped her face, stroking his thumb over the edge of one of them.

“Then you lift your head,” he said, keeping his voice firm with the full force of his will. “You look him in the eye. You show him that you are strong, and that you can carry on without him.”

Azelma leaned towards his hand, closing her eyes. “Isn’t that cruel, Monsieur?” she asked in a tremulous voice. “Shouldn’t I show him instead that I love him and I need him, and that I will always-” she swallowed hard. “That I will always need him?”

“But that will be a lie,” Javert shook his head. “You don’t need him. You haven’t needed him since you… you left.”

That was a better option than to remind her of the circumstances of their first meeting and Thénardier’s hand in it, Javert decided.

“He is my father,” Azelma whispered. “I should need him.”

Javert didn’t know what to say to that. He couldn’t say that _he_ never needed his own father – look at what not even bothering to learn about the man he owed his existence to had landed him. 

Wreaking his mind, he found himself entirely unsurprised when the words he next spoke were not his own, but Valjean’s:

“The dearest wish of every good parent is to raise a child who no longer needs them,” he said, the words sticking plastic-thick on his tongue. He swallowed. “If he… if he still sees you as his daughter and still loves you, then it will be the best gift that you can give him.”

“If he doesn’t?” Azelma asked, her shoulders shaking just once.

“Then he doesn’t deserve the triumph to know that you still see him as your father,” Javert said, firmer now. “He doesn’t deserve such a privilege.”

“You make it sound so easy,” she said. Javert opened his mouth, but before he could even think to apologise, she was already stepping away, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.

“I’ll try,” she told him. Her smile was watery, but it didn’t waver. “I’ll look him in the eye.”

Javert squeezed her on the shoulder, just briefly, before he nodded. Her smile widened a little, and she turned to face the glass that served as barrier between them and the execution room.

Not a moment too soon, really, because the bars swung open then. Thénardier entered, practically draped in chains. The wound on his temple was bleeding sluggishly, drops of blood slowly spreading the circle of red on the collar of his jumpsuit. The guard shoved him, and he snarled again, dark eyes blazing with hatred as he bared his teeth at the man, spittle flying.

He looked like a dog.

The head guard stepped forward towards the microphone. He cleared his throat into it. Thénardier’s head jerked upwards, eyes narrowing towards the ceiling. He could not see them, Javert realised, and he almost stepped forward, to speak.

But Azelma caught his arm, and she shook her head. He stopped, cocking his head, but she had turned her eyes back towards the glass.

“Prisoner 79624, once prisoner 69769,” the head guard said. “You were found guilty of multiple counts of theft, robbery, fraud, and assault, as well as a single count each of attempted murder and attempted destruction of property. For that, you were sentenced to death without possibility of parole on 9th of March, 2135.”

He paused. “Do you have any last words?”

Thénardier smiled. It was a terrible thing.

“Let me look you in the face, you damned bastard.”

The head guard straightened, his hands tugging at his collar. “Strap him in,” he said.

“Wait,” Azelma said, her voice soft. But the room was so enclosed – situated as it was in the centre of the prison with no windows anywhere in sight – that her voice echoed. The head guard paused, turning towards him.

“Will you let him look at us?” she asked quietly. “Just half the mirror, if you don’t want him to see you. But I’d like for him to be able to look at me.”

“Are you certain,” his eyes flickered towards Javert, then back towards her, “Mademoiselle Thénardier?”

“Yes.”

Looking at her for another moment, the man nodded. He pressed a series of buttons on the wide metal-and-glass table.

There was no sound, but Javert knew the precise moment when the glass turned transparent on the other side. Thénardier’s head jerked upwards, body practically straining against the arms of the guards strapping him into the chair. His eyes widened, and there was a moment of absolute stillness before he tried to throw himself forward from the chair.

Azelma didn’t flinch. A shudder went through her entire body, but she did not flinch. Javert squeezed his hand around her shoulder again, trying to convey his pride without speaking a word.

“So you’ve come to see your old dad die, didn’t you?” Thénardier asked, his lips curling upwards. His voice was distorted by the glass, but the contempt was still horribly clear. “Come to see him piss and shit himself during his last moments, eh?”

She took a deep breath. Her hands clenched tight at her sides. Javert’s hand hovered in the air as she pushed it away, and her eyes turned towards the head guard. After a moment, the man nodded, and he stepped away from the microphone, tapping on a few more keys before he moved to the wall, beyond the sight of the mirror.

Leaning into the microphone, she took a deep breath. When she spoke, her voice was steady.

“I’ve come to see you, dad,” she said quietly. 

“Oh, you’ve come to _see me_!” Thénardier crowed. “So why haven’t you come before this, eh? You’ve left dear old dad to rot in prison for the past months, girlie, so why this change of heart?”

“Because I think that you should see a familiar face before… before you die, I guess,” Azelma said, her voice soft even as she ducked her head down. But she lifted it after a moment, meeting Thénardier’s gaze again.

“And I wanted you to know that I don’t need you anymore.”

“You don’t _need me anymore_ ,” Thénardier mocked. Even strapped into the chair with guards hovering around the controls, even reduced as he was, malice seemed to pour out of him enough to fill the room. “So you’ve found someone else to protect you, girlie?”

He leaned in, and his smile was full of teeth as he glanced towards Javert himself.

“Tell me, girl: does that slave fuck you as well as that rich boy did?”

Javert was moving even before he even knew it. Only when he felt a hand close around his arm did he realise that he was close, terribly close, to punching the glass. To breaking it with his bare hands so he could reach Thénardier and kill the man himself instead of letting the chair do it for him.

Taking a deep breath, he let his arm fall back to his side. He didn’t even look at the head guard, eyes travelling instead of Azelma.

Her hands were clenched tight by her side, but her head was still held high.

“You never understood, dad,” she said, every word so heavy that they seemed to be dragged out of her. “I… you never understood.”

She wiped her eyes with a hand. “You’re my dad,” she said, the small tremor starting to enter her voice. “I think you always will be. But… I don’t need you anymore. I don’t… I don’t _want_ you anymore.”

With that, she stepped back from the microphone.

“Don’t,” she said, not glancing at the head guard as he reached for the keys that would refuse Thénardier the choice to look at them. “Let him… let him see me.”

The head guard looked at her. Even without a visor, Javert could not understand what was running in his head. After a moment, he nodded, and stepped up to the microphone.

“Steady the prisoner,” he said, his crisp voice echoing throughout the room. “Ready the electricity.”

Thénardier’s eyes went wide. In that one moment, he seemed to realise what was ahead of him. He started to struggle, but Javert knew very well just how tight the straps were. He watched as the leather start to tear at the rough cloth of the jumpsuit; saw as skin was reveal and blood started to stain the orange with Thénardier’s every jerk and twist.

“Countdown from three. Three.”

Azelma pressed herself next against Javert’s arm.

“Two.”

She did not look away. 

“One.”

Javert kept his own eyes on Thénardier.

The electricity did not make any sound as it was turned on. There was no theatrical buzzing. There was only the red light above the chair turning on and starting to spin. Only Thénardier’s teeth starting to chatter as he lost control of his jaw. Only the quiet thumps of his body against the chair as he started to seize. 

His eyes rolled up his head. His mouth opened. There were no screams; vocal chords no longer worked well enough for such a thing. His hands clawed at the arms of the chair, struggling on the straps. The crotch of his jumpsuit turned wet. Nails tore off. Blood splattered outwards, the shots of electricity turning liquid into a living thing even as it ripped life away from a man.

There was a clock in the room. There was a timer hovering beside the head guard. But Javert only knew that from experience, not from sight – his eyes were fixed on Thénardier, and time could only be counted in heartbeats.

Six hundred and thirty-three heartbeats. It took ten minutes before Thénardier finally stopped moving. He was slumped against the chair, back still straight due to the straps criss-crossing his chest. His jumpsuit was irrecoverably stained.

The red light stopped spinning. 

“Check pulse.”

A guard shoved Thénardier’s head up. Those empty eyes, filled with the fire of hate only fifteen minutes ago, were finally turned away from where they had been fixed on Azelma.

“Prisoner 79624: death confirmed at 12:07pm, 9th July 2136,” the guard reported.

“Mademoiselle,” the head guard turned towards Azelma. “As the convict’s only remaining relative, you have the choice with regards to his body.”

Azelma’s face was utterly white. She stared straight forward. Javert shook her a little, and she shuddered hard.

“Cremate him,” she said, voice terribly soft. “But send his ashes to me.”

“The address has already been given when we first entered,” Javert continued for her as she buried her face into his arm. He drew the other around her shoulder, pulling her close. He tried to ignore how her body was shuddering as if she had been electrocuted herself, but Javert’s shirt remained dry.

The head guard nodded. “Understood.” He turned back towards the execution room; towards the corpse who had once been a man.

“Bring the body to the oven,” he said.

Azelma made a sound, soft and broken. Javert cupped the back of her neck with a hand, kissing her hair.

He watched out of the corner of his eyes as the guards lifted Thénardier’s body by the armpits and the legs. His eyes were still open. Javert’s hands itched.

“Close his eyes,” he said. “Please.”

It was a foolish thought, but he did not wish for Thénardier to have to watch the fires that would consume his body.

In his arms, Azelma was clawing at his arm, gasping soundlessly. The head guard watched them for a moment more, his eyes still incomprehensible, before he repeated the instruction into the microphone. Then he nodded at them before sweeping out of the room.

When the heavy door slammed shut behind him, Azelma’s knees gave out. Javert followed her downwards, pulling her close and kissing her hair again.

“I should be relieved,” she said, her voice thick with the tears she did not – could not, perhaps – shed. “I should be. He wasn’t a good father. But he… he…”

She choked, unable to continue.

Javert stroked a hand down her back. His eyes drifted once more towards the execution room. There was blood all over the grey floors and streaks of piss and shit all over the seat of the chair. Thénardier’s eyes were closed, and the body left his sight as the guards left the room with it.

He swallowed hard.

“No,” he said, pulling the daughter who had just watched her father die close. “No, he didn’t deserve that.”

 _Neither did you_ , he thought.

Years he had spent in this prison. He had stood in Azelma’s place once. Yet it was now, and only now, that he realised that this was… this was barbaric. Thénardier was a menace, a beast, but… but he was still a man, with a daughter, and he did not deserve to die like that.

Swallowing the words back, he held Azelma tighter as she started to shake again. He pressed another kiss into her hair.

“You can cry,” he told her quietly. “It’ll be easier for you if you cry.”

There was so much more to do, so much more that needed to change. Yet change took a long time. He wished it would move faster; wished that he could have hope that he would someday see a world in which nobody – not even a beast wearing a form of a man – would be treated like this.

“I can’t,” Azelma gasped out, nails digging almost hard enough into Javert’s sleeve that the cloth started to tear. “I can’t.”

He stroked his hand through her hair again, trying to soothe even though he knew it was far too little an effort.

Even if Javert would never see the day, even if it would never come to pass, he would fight for it. 

Not for the future generations. Not for the defeated men he saw in holograms in the main room. Not for any of them.

For Azelma. For the wounds that having to watch this had scored within her heart; for the knife which caused them which should not have existed in the first place. To get rid of the knife that had burnt away all of her tears and left only this hollowness that made her shake like she no longer knew what it meant to breathe.

***

A few days later, Frey came to him at the shelter.

Javert had been chased out by Clarisse – now the overall-in-charge of the place ever since Marius helped her win her divorce from her husband earlier that year – and was sitting on the steps with an unlit cigarette dangling from his fingertips. He had bummed it off Clarisse herself with the excuse that having one less cigarette to smoke was, somehow, in aid of her not contracting lung cancer later in her life. He had a feeling that she hadn’t believed him for a single second.

Frey’s footsteps were familiar enough to him now for Javert to not turn around when the younger man came towards him.

“What do you want this time?” he asked in lieu of a greeting.

“I don’t always want something when I see you,” Frey returned, cocking an eyebrow as he dropped next to the steps.

Javert lit the cigarette, taking a drag of it and blowing it at Frey’s face. He grinned when Frey started to cough, waving his hand around his face.

“You always do when you go out of your way to look for me,” he pointed out. “Couldn’t you wait until the weekend is over?”

“Not really,” Frey said. When he didn’t elaborate, Javert looked at him, gaze growing more and more pointed with every second until Frey sighed, dropping his head between his drawn-up knees.

He muttered something incomprehensible. Javert blinked.

“I’ve never heard you mumble anything when you can make a speech out of it instead,” he said, amused.

Frey took a deep breath, as if trying to gather his courage. He lifted his head and met Javert’s eyes, and Javert let the hand holding the cigarette rest on his knee so he could look at the man properly.

“I’m wondering if it’s possible for me to ask Azelma out,” Frey said finally. “For a proper date. Courtship, if you want to put it that way.”

Javert blinked. He stared at Frey for a long moment, mouth slightly parted out of shock.

“What makes you think you even have to ask _me_ for that?” he blurted out, incredulous. “Shouldn’t you be asking _her_ for that?”

“Of course I did,” Frey said, brows furrowing. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “She’s the one who told me to ask you.”

“Why?” _I’m not her father_ , Javert wanted to say, but somehow the words refused to come.

“I…” Frey began, but he clicked his mouth shut immediately, shaking his head. “I wanted to guess at her intentions, but it’s… it’s not a good idea to even try to assume to read her mind.”

“Do you really mean that or are you just giving me lip service?”

Frey blinked. “When on Earth have I ever tried to give _anyone_ lip service?”

“Good point,” Javert conceded. He took another drag, watching Frey out of the corner of his eyes. To his credit, the man didn’t fidget.

“Did she tell you ‘yes’?”

Shaking his head, Frey sighed. “She didn’t tell me anything except to ask you,” he said.

Suddenly, Javert understood. He tipped his head back, biting off a sigh by taking another drag of his cigarette, and wondered just how he managed to earn the trust of a girl who seemed incapable of believing in the goodness of others. He wondered just when he became an exception instead the rule by which all must follow.

He dragged a hand over his face. Looking at the burning ember at the end of his cigarette, he took another drag before flicking it on the ground and stubbing it out.

“Ask her again after a few weeks,” he told Frey. “Or even a few months. She isn’t really in the kind of mindset to make decisions or even think about such things right now.” His lips twitched upwards, just a little.

“You have terrible timing.”

Frey laughed a little, shoulders shaking. “I was trying to give her a distraction,” he said quietly. “Something else for her to think about instead of…”  
_  
Instead of dwelling on Thénardier’s death_ , Javert finished for him when Frey trailed off, shrugging helplessly.

“That’s not really how it works,” Javert said dryly. “You’re not very good with people, are you?”

“I’m not,” Frey admitted easily. His fingers linked where they hung loosely between his knees, and he stared blankly into the distance. “People are easy when you think of them as a crowd. You can make assumptions in broad strokes about their reactions. But when it comes to them individually, about something so personal?”

He shrugged again. “I have no idea how anyone would react to such a thing. Nothing I’ve ever read can help me with that.”

Javert snorted, shaking his head. “She’s not a war to be won,” he pointed out. “Neither are her feelings something you can conquer using strategy.”

Nodding, Frey dragged a hand through his hair, mussing the dirty-blond strands up even harder. “I know that,” he said, sounding frustrated at himself. “But I don’t know how else to do things.”

“A wise girl once told me,” Javert said slowly, “that you just take one day at a time.”

Frey turned towards him, eyes widening. “One day at a time,” he said slowly. “But what if I make mistakes?”

“Stop trying to predict possibilities,” Javert said, starting to lose patience “Ask her about her reactions if you really need to know beforehand, but don’t hold it against her if she reacts differently. She’s a person, not a war.”

He paused. “And if you keep thinking about her like one, or even as something to fix or change, then I’m not letting you get within twenty feet of her for the rest of her life.”

When he smiled at Frey, it was with teeth.

Eyes wide, Frey stared at him for a long, long moment before he threw his head back and barked a laugh. It was dark and heavy and almost bitter, and Javert drew his teeth back between his lips and simply watched him.

The sound reminded him of that first day he spent with Frey outside the Notre Dame, three years ago now. He had looked at him and saw a too-old man looking out of the face that should belong to a boy. Now he saw the same, and he wondered if this was why Frey and Azelma were drawn to each other: two children forced to grow up far too quickly, forced to learn to survive on their own without shattering and bending, and somehow also make the lives of those around them better.

“Ask her,” he said again when the laughter trailed off and Frey was staring down to his hands. “I can’t give you an answer. Only she can.”

Frey closed his eyes. His next breath was as heavy as a sigh.

“Yeah,” he nodded. He turned to Javert, and the lopsided smile he gave was almost sincere.

“I’ll even try my best to not imagine the possibilities until then.”

 _One day at a time_. Javert’s lips quirked upwards, and he gave Frey a wry smile. 

“That’s a good start,” he said.

Unbidden, he wondered if Azelma ever knew just how true her advice was, and how far it could reach.

Likely not.


	3. Three, 2138 [Part 1 of 2]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A prostitute’s child goes to meet her biological father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> **Book I Chapter 3: Three, 2138 [Part 1 of 2]**  
> 
> 
> **Warnings:** Tholomyés. Just… Tholomyés is a horrible human being. That is all.  
>  **Notes:** Year 4 is already covered in Epilogue One of the original fic. So have a really long chapter for Year 3.

She had not wanted her Papa to come with her for this.

“It’s not that I don’t want you to meet him, or that there are things I want to ask him that I don’t want you to hear,” Cosette had told him earnestly. “It’s just that… I think I have to do this alone, that’s all.”

Valjean had looked at her with dark, doubtful eyes. But he had nodded, sighing. “At least bring Azelma with you,” he had said. When Cosette made to protest – for surely Azelma was too busy to indulge in her whims – her father had shook his head.

“Do it for me, if not for yourself,” he told her. “I will worry if you go alone.”

Now, standing outside the looming prison of Rocheforte, Cosette had to admit that her father was right: to have Azelma here, their arms linked together and her body solid and present besides hers, gave her enough courage to take a step forward when the heavy metal bars of the gates swing open.

“Purpose?”

Cosette started, looking around her. The voice was cold and mechanical, practically inhuman. Through the glass, she saw a guard – black-clothed, black-visored – leaning against the table towards a microphone. She took a deep breath, glancing towards Azelma.

The other girl had warned her about what prison was like, but the sight and sounds of it made even those halting, vivid descriptions pale.

She took a deep breath. “I’m here to visit a prisoner. Felix Tholomyés.”

“Relation?”

Azelma smiled at her, her hand warm on top of Cosette’s. Cosette’s squeezed hers, and ducked her head down.

“He is my biological father,” she said quietly.

“There are no records of Felix Tholomyés ever having a daughter,” the mechanical voice continued. “He only had a son, now deceased.”

Cosette nodded. “I was… illegitimate. He did not acknowledge me until… until the day of his arrest.”

“Hn,” the cold voice grunted. “What is your name?”

“Euphrasie Valjean,” Cosette said. Somehow, the first name felt so much stranger on her tongue than the second even though she had the first all of her life and the second only a little over three years now.

There was the sound of in-drawn breath. Cosette ducked her head even lower, trying to hide her smile of relief – even if it was shock, even if it was surprise, the sign of emotion reminded her that the guard was human instead of a machine with arms and legs.

She pulled out the memories of that young freckled-face guard and his partner. _They are human too_ , she reminded herself. _They have their own stories: thoughts, sufferings, and hearts_.

The guard cleared his throat. “Alright. We’ll let you see him,” he said briskly. “Step in to be frisked, then.”

Azelma’s hands tightened on hers. Cosette turned, giving the other girl a quiet smile. “I’ll be fine,” she said softly. “Will you just wait for me here?”

“I’d rather come in with you,” Azelma said. “But I don’t think that it will be allowed.”

Javert had told the both of them that the Rochefort prison was different from Toulon: while Toulon was meant primarily for men who had committed crimes judged in the criminal court, the prison in Rochefort had been changed in the beginning of Our Second Napoleon’s rule to hold exclusively men who had committed civil crimes, especially those who came from the wealthier classes of society.

Unlike Toulon, there was no execution chamber in Rochefort. Unlike Toulon, there were far more stringent security measures for visits, put in place so that those who strayed would not infect those who were still obedient.

Cosette wondered which prison Marius would be sent to if he was ever found to have been at the barricades; if he ever took a step out of the deep lines etched in by the cold, cruel words of the law. Or if he ever met a judge who was not sympathetic to his cause. Or if Louis-Jérôme of the House of Napoleon ever ran out of patience for his quiet, unwavering rebellion.

She shook her head free of those thoughts. That was not what she was here for.

Instead, she steeled herself as she walked towards the security post. She stood still as the guard came out, holding out a small, circular machine that he ran all over her. Cosette had gone without any jewellery for the day, so there were no suspicious beeping. But that wasn’t good enough, of course, so she held her arms out as the guard stepped even closer to her.

Rough hands patted her shoulders, then down her chest and stomach. Fingers dug between her breasts. 

_There are no female guards, so it will be a man who will be checking you for weapons_ , Javert had warned her beforehand, and she clutched onto those words now, forcing herself to not tremble. _They won’t be kind about it. You won’t be treated like a lady, or even someone to be respected. You’ll just be little better than a convict in their eyes._

Finally, _finally_ , the inspection ended. Cosette closed her eyes, trying to not shiver from the ghosts of the touches that lingered on her hips and calves.

“You’re clear,” the guard said. He stood there, a proper distance from her again, and hesitated. Cosette looked at him, blinking, before he sighed and pulled up the visor.

The face revealed to her was that of a man in his early-forties, younger than her father but with brown eyes that were just a shade lighter. There was grey hair at the edges of his temples, and he looked frustrated and guilty both.

“Sorry about that,” he said brusquely. Without the muffling effect of the visor or the echoes of the microphone, he sounded nothing like a machine. “It’s just regulation. We don’t want any of the bastards inside to get hold of any kind of weapons for escape.”

Cosette nodded. She clenched her hands by her side, trying to not reach out to touch; to check if the man was actually _real_ instead some sort of distorted dream.

“Look, I…” he rubbed a hand over the bridge of his nose. “Look, Mademoiselle, it’s…” he trailed off, shaking his head, seemingly at a loss of words.

Slowly, hesitantly, Cosette reached out. She took the guard’s hands into both of hers, gripping tight. “Please don’t worry about it,” she told her, locking her eyes with his and praying that he would see the sincerity in them. “I know that you’re just doing your job, Monsieur, and I… I won’t make it difficult for you.”

The guard stared down to her hands, then back up to his face. He swallowed. “I know who you are,” he said, the words tumbling out of him in a rush. “And I… I have daughters too, you know, and I know I’ll be damned pissed if any man tried to touch them this way. But it’s just…”

“I know,” Cosette said, steeling her voice even further as she gripped the guard’s hands tightly. “Please, Monsieur, you…” she wrecked her mind for words, but could come out with nothing but:

“Thank you.”

Brown eyes widened. The guard gaped at her. “What are you _thanking_ _me_ for?”

Cosette smiled gently. “For proving that I am right, that Papa and Marius are right, in thinking that most men are good and it is only some of the laws and regulations that are bad.”

She looked down, sighing. “I just wish that good men did not have to go against their conscience to make a living to support themselves or their families,” she continued softly. “But those changes will take a long time to come, and though you think that you have done little, Monsieur, you have in fact done a great deal.”

There was a choking noise. Cosette looked up, eyes wide. She let go of those hands just in time for the guard to reach upwards, practically ripping off his helmet. He held onto it with both hands, staring down at it, before he turned and glared fiercely at the cameras pointed towards the gate; towards them.

“There’s nothing that I’ve done,” he said, sounding wretched. “I could’ve… I _should’ve…_ ”

Oh, this poor, poor man. Cosette wrapped her fingers around his on the helmet.

“Monsieur,” she said gently. She did not continue until he looked up again, and her smile widened as she squeezed his hands again.

“You didn’t have to apologise. But you did, Monsieur; you did. And now you have shown me your face and become more than just another faceless thing to be feared. That is enough, more than enough, for me.” 

“Mademoiselle,” he started. He swallowed, and shook his head, seemingly in disbelief. “God, how can someone like you be _real_?”

Cosette threw her head back and laughed, genuinely amused. This man was not the first who had asked her such a thing.

“I had a good Papa who taught me to look at the world and all that is good in it,” Cosette answered, her smile softening at the edges at the thoughts of her father. “I am fortunate enough to be given much in life, and so many who loves me and will do anything for me.”

“But you…” the guard trailed off. He turned, looking behind him towards the prison.

Looking down, Cosette shook her head. “I have my own shares of sorrows, like everyone who has ever lived does. I have had my own share of mistakes as well. But if I dwell in them, or let those shadows take over me, then I will only bring pain to others, and that’s not… that’s not something I can ever stand.”

“You’re too good to be a daughter to that bastard,” the guard said.

Cosette giggled. “May I tell you a secret, Monsieur?” she lowered her voice into a conspiring whisper. When he nodded, she leaned in a little closer.

“I’ve never thought of him as my father,” she murmured. “A sperm donor, maybe, but that is all.”

He blinked, staring at her. His mouth opened, then closed. Finally, he said, “Then why are you here?”

“Because I think he deserves as a chance, like everyone else,” she replied. “And I hope… I hope that learning of the mistakes he had made would make him a better man.”

She still did not know very much about Javert, but if there was one thing Cosette knew for certain, it was that Javert had been blind once; he had followed the law blindly once, believing it to be justice when it was not. But he had changed, becoming far more when he learned of his mistake.

Perhaps it was foolish of her, but Cosette could not help but wish that Tholomyés would undergo, if not the same change, then at least something similar to it.

The guard’s eyes were still on her. After a moment, he sighed. “Maybe seeing you would make him less of a bastard,” he said. “But I don’t have much hope for it. Are you _sure_ you’ll still want to see him?”

Cosette hesitated. She had a sinking suspicion ever since the guard started speaking of Tholomyés that this trip would be a wasted one.

Turning her head, she met Azelma’s eyes. Her friend was still standing outside the gates – it had closed at some point during her conversation with the guard – and Azelma’s eyes were gentle and comforting. She nodded, and Cosette closed her eyes.

She had to try. She could not turn back without trying.

“Yes,” she said.

After a moment, the guard nodded. He gently untangled his fingers from hers, pulling the helmet back onto his head. The visor went back down.

But Cosette remembered the sight of those brown eyes. _I have daughters too_ , he had said. This man was no longer a faceless creature, but a man with his own difficulties and sufferings; a man with daughters he loved and wished to protect. Those hands, gloved in leather though they might be, were warm and definitely human.

It was impossible to fear him now.

“Come on then,” he said, starting to turn away. “I’ll bring you to him.”

*

The room that M. Chastain – the guard; she had finally thought to ask him of his name as she followed him into the prison – brought her to was small and cramped. Raw concrete walls surrounded her, and though the walls were even and clearly recently cleaned, there were no tiles or floorboards. A metal chair was in the centre of the room, pushed beneath a metal table with a holographic projector.

M. Chastain gave her an apologetic look. “Only legal relatives can meet any of the convicts physically, Mademoiselle,” he told her. “But you’ll be able to converse with him through the projectors.”

Cosette bit her lip, nodding. Her thoughts turned towards the convicts: how cruel and terrible their lives must be! The only faces they would see were convicts like themselves, for the guards went helmeted and visored, and they could only see even the faces of those beloved to them through machines. There was no possibility to touch them; not even any illusion of it. And surely any touch that came to them would only be violence, whether from other convicts or the guards.

Their lives must be so cold and empty.

She had known for a long time that her father was a convict. But it was only now, after looking at the prison with its high walls and small windows and standing in this tiny room with practically nothing in it, that she found herself shivering at the thought of it. Her Papa had spent nineteen years, as long as Cosette herself had been alive, in a place such as this.

Shaking her head hard, she walked towards the chair. The sound of metal on concrete was a loud screech that echoed around the room, and Cosette hugged herself, just once, before she sat on the chair.

“I’ll be here, Mademoiselle,” M. Chastain said. 

Cosette turned. He was standing there next to the heavy steel door, his hands loose by his side. As she nodded, she imagined that he was giving her an encouraging smile beneath the visor, and it eased something within her.

Reaching out, she pressed the only button on the holographic projector.

When Tholomyés appeared on the screen, Cosette’s only thought was: _thin_. The paunch he’d carried back at the courtroom years ago was already gone, replaced with sharp collarbones that peeked through the too-big orange jumpsuit. There used to be more hair on his head too, but now there were only a few strands that could not even begin to cover the sweat-shiny scalp. The eye that watered constantly was now permanently shut. There was a new scar from the edge of his mouth to his ear, pulling up his lip into a permanent sneer.

The next thought that came to her: _ugly_. And Cosette could not even find it within herself to deny it. She swallowed hard.

“Hello,” she said.

“Oh,” Tholomyés said. “It’s you. Have you come here to tell me that I’m free then?”

Cosette blinked. Of all the things she had expected, it was not this. “What?”

Tholomyés made an impatient sound. “Alright then. Have you come here to tell me that you’ve _finally_ started the paperwork that will get me exonerated of these ridiculous crimes?”

She opened her mouth, then closed it. Her eyes dropped from the man towards her own hands, and she noted, with faraway surprise, that her nails were digging into her palm.

“Why would you think that?” she heard herself ask.

“Well, I’m your father, aren’t I?” Tholomyés said. The sneer on his face widened, and Cosette wondered if that was an attempt at a smile. She shivered.

“You are…” she swallowed, shaking her head. She could say it to M. Chastain, but not to the man herself.

Instead, she took a deep breath. “I came here to tell you that I am getting married,” she said quietly, looking back down to her hands. “And I hope… I hope that you would be happy for me.”

Tholomyés did not reply for long moments.

Slowly, Cosette raised her head. Tholomyés was staring at her, one good eye wide. The lines beside it was creased, and his mouth was twisted in an expression that Cosette could not even begin to put into words. Once more, _ugly_ came to her mind again, a constant beat like drums.

“Why,” he said slowly, “do you think I would care about that?”

Of course he wouldn’t. Cosette bit the inside of her cheek. “If,” she began, but her voice was far too shaky. Suddenly, she was glad that she was not in the same room as him; she did not think she would be able to stand it.

“If you do not care that I am getting married, _Monsieur_ ,” she stressed the title without even knowing why she was doing so, “then why do you think that I would help you get free?”

Tholomyés threw his head back and laughed. “Oh, so that’s it then,” he cackled, shaking his head. “A murderer and a thief are worthwhile enough for your beloved Pontmercy to fight for – that’s who you’re marrying, isn’t it? Even a goddamned gypsy and a whore are good enough. But not your own father?”

Cosette trembled. Her nails dug into her palms. “You…”

“All of them committed crimes, you know,” Tholomyés continued, his voice growing louder and more high-pitched with every word. “People saw that murderer shoot my son. Shoot your _brother_! And that thief you call Papa- ha! He was caught red-handed! All of them were caught red-handed and you think nothing of letting them go! Setting them free to be leeches on society once more! Yet you never even spared a thought for me when I’m convicted on trumped-up charges! Your own father!”

“You’re _not my father_!”

It was only when the echoes of her own voice reached her that Cosette realised that she was yelling. The sound of light metal hitting concrete resonated on her ear – oh, she was standing too; she had stood with such suddenness that she had thrown the chair off balance entirely.

Her eyes met Tholomyés’s. “You’re not my father,” she repeated quietly. “I only have one father, and his name is Jean Valjean. He is a good man who spent nineteen years in jail for the crime of trying to save someone’s life. He is not a thief. He is a good man. He is…”

Leaning forward, Cosette narrowed her eyes, and threw her next words out towards Tholomyés like a weapon:

“He is a better man than you can _ever_ be.”

Tholomyés opened his mouth. To laugh, perhaps, to even to speak, but Cosette was angry now. She was more furious than she had ever been, a tempest boiling in her chest that made her shake.

“The charges that landed you here were right.” She took a breath, and repeated those words: “They were _right_. You bribed. You lied. You treated laws like they were playthings. You treated- you treated _people_ like playthings! But they’re not! They’re not, and you’re in jail because of all that you’ve done!”

Her vision was blurring, but she blinked the tears away, keeping her gaze fixed upon the man.

Tholomyés’s single eye was burning with something that Cosette could recognise to be hatred. It was so sharp, so cold, lacing into her.

“Laws are made for men like me,” he said, his voice practically screeching with a triumph that she knew not the source of. “I’m Felix Tholomyés, the head of a family that used to rule Midi-Pyrénées. My grandfather fought with Our Great Napoleon during the wars. He helped to make the laws.”

Cosette shook her head, but he was not finished.

“So what if my actions have caused the unfair trials of dozens of people? So what? I’m worth thousands, _millions_ , of those people. They are all whores and bastards, all scum of the streets. All of them are worthless. I’ve done the world a favour by putting all of them behind bars where they _deserve_ to be!”

The scar on his face twisted even further, revealing rotting teeth beneath and turning him even uglier than before. “But I guess you will never understand how the world works,” he finished. “You’re just like your mother. Nothing but a whore.”

Words from long ago came back to her: _like mother like daughter, the scum of the streets_. Cosette dug her nails into her palms even harder.

“Is that,” Cosette heard herself ask, her own voice coming from thousands of miles away, “why you abandoned my mother?”

“Abandoned her?” Tholomyés laughed, the sound sharp and mocking. “That’ll imply that she means anything to me in the first place.”

His smile widened even further. “I’ve been trying to remember her, you know,” he said. “She was a pretty bit, I admit, and _so_ eager. She practically threw herself at my feet. I did her a favour.”

He barked another laugh. “How many women have the privilege of having had Felix Tholomyés’s bastard?”

 _I should not have come here_ , Cosette thought numbly. She had known cruelty, of course; she remembered all those years spent under the thumb of two creatures who had been so incredibly selfish that they cared not for the ruin they caused in the wake of their greed.

But even the Thénardiers had their saving grace: she had seen them lavish love on their daughters, though, from Azelma’s stories, that had been short-lived. More importantly, they had been so _small_ , so inconsequential, while Tholomyés had so much power at his grasp and could see no use for it, none at all, except for his own benefit.

There was something her Papa had told her, just a few weeks before. _I’ve kept most of the money I saved during those years in Montreuil_ , he had told her, clearly embarrassed and self-deprecating. _I’ve always meant it for you in the event of your marriage, for your dowry. It’s only six hundred thousand francs, so it’s not very much, but it’ll last you and Marius for years if you use it carefully. Neither of you will have to depend on his inheritance_.

Cosette had always been terribly thankful that Valjean had come to take her away from the Thénardiers. Yet now… Now, despite all the ruin she knew it had caused her mother, she was _glad_ that this man had abandoned her. She could not imagine the life she would have had if she had known Felix Tholomyés to be her father instead of Jean Valjean.

“You deserve being here,” she told the man quietly, finding a vicious triumph burst within her when that awful glee began to fade from his face. “You deserve it, because you’re lower than an insect. My Papa is worth a million of you. M. Javert is worth a million of you.”

She took a deep breath. Cosette was not used to this rage; she had never been someone who took any kind of delight in hurting another. Yet the words were filling her chest, and she knew they would poison her entirely if she did not say them.

“If your son was anything like you,” she said, keeping his voice low, “then I’m glad that he’s dead. I’m glad that M. Javert killed him.”

Tholomyés’s face changed entirely, twisting until it barely seemed human. He made an inarticulate cry, leaping from his chair. But he could not reach her, not when they could only see each other through projectors, and he fell onto his face. 

When he looked up at her, eyes still burning with hatred, Cosette noted dully the blood that dripped from his mouth. At the moment, he looked absolutely pathetic, and she knew perfectly well that it was her who had dealt him this blow.

Throughout these years, Cosette had learned that her empathy could be dangerous. It was a weapon, a double-edged knife. And now, looking at Tholomyés, at this broken shell of a man with water dripping from his one good eye that still mourned for the one son he acknowledged, she felt pity well up within her. She felt the knife pierce her own heart in the form of guilt and grief.

Let it bleed. She would not harden her heart. She would not become like this man.

“You’re not my father,” she repeated. “But… Monsieur, I came here hoping that you had learned from your mistakes and become a better man. I see that you have not, but I will still keep on hoping. I will keep praying for you.”

She took a breath. “Because that’s what my father has taught me to do.”

Before Tholomyés could speak, or even think of any sort of reply, Cosette sketched a hurried curtsey towards him. Her fingers were trembling when she switched off the projector, and they nearly slipped on the table as she tried to lean against it.

Gloved hands rested on her shoulders. Cosette followed them blindly, letting herself be gently manoeuvred into the chair that had been righted somehow. She buried her face in her hands, trying to stifle her sobs.

He was not her father, but she still carried his blood within her veins. She would not have existed without him. To see him this way, to see his cruelty turned towards her like this…

Her heart ached terribly.

“Tholomyés is a hell of a bastard,” M. Chastain murmured. His hands squeezed her shoulders.

Cosette shook her head. She lifted her head, wiping away her tears as she gave him a shaky smile. “I was not very kind to him either, Monsieur,” she said, because it was true. “But he… all that he _said_ …”

She took a deep breath, trying to steel herself. “I should have behaved better.”

“Mademoiselle,” M. Chastain said. He dropped down until he was half-kneeling beside the chair, and his brown eyes were on hers again. His helmet had been dropped haphazardly to the corner.

“There are a lot of men like Tholomyés,” he said. “Men who take every favour dealt to them as their due, and who take every denial to be unjust. Men who placed themselves far above all others, seeing themselves as righteous and grand no matter how the world thinks otherwise.”

He shook his head. “You cannot change men like these.”

“But everyone can change,” Cosette protested. “They can repent. They can be better.”

“They can,” M. Chastain said, nodding. “I’ve seen it these years, after M. Valjean’s trial. I’ve even seen it in myself – I would never think of talking to you like this before. But Mademoiselle… people have to want to change themselves. You cannot force it upon them.”

Cosette bit down on her lip. She wanted to protest, but there was a rock-solid truth within those steady words that she could not deny. 

When she and Marius had first met M. Philippe two years or so ago, when M. Frey finally confirmed their suspicions about his identity, Marius had been so angry at them both. He had grabbed M. Frey by the collar, nearly shaking him. _Why have you not taken over the army and overthrown your uncle? Why have you not given a Republic to the people if that’s what you believe in?_

 __M. Frey had shook his head. _Because that would be tyranny_ , he had said. _The obedience of soldiers does not mean the consent of the people_.

She did not understand him then; could not have, because she saw so much suffering daily during her alms-giving that refusing to enforce change seemed to be nothing but selfishness. But now… Now, she had seen what Tholomyés had become after he had been brought low, she had heard M. Chastain’s words, and she knew they both spoke the truth.

There was only so far that hope and charity could reach. There was only so much even faith could do. They were formless things, really, and had shapes only in the eyes of those who saw them. And those shapes could be twisted terribly.

Quietly, she let out a breath, tipping her head back and staring up at the ceiling.

“I wish he is different,” she said. “I wish he could learn how to be different.”

“Maybe he could still do so,” M. Chastain said. Cosette smiled, because she knew that he didn’t think so, and was glad that he was indulging her anyway.

Taking a deep breath, she stood. She pulled off her glasses and wiped at her eyes with her sleeve before smoothing down her dress.

“Thank you, Monsieur,” she said.

M. Chastain grunted, looking away. His hands fiddled at the straps of his helmet. “It’s the least I can do,” he said.

“No,” Cosette corrected gently. “The least anyone can do is nothing. And you have not done nothing, Monsieur.”

Brown eyes turned back to her. For the first time, Cosette saw M. Chastain smile. It was a tremulous, uncertain thing, and she returned it full and bright even as she took his hands and squeezed them encouragingly.

“Will you be back again?” M. Chastain asked.

Cosette’s eyes darted back towards the holographic projector. Slowly, she shook her head. “No, I don’t think so.”

Before M. Chastain could hide his disappointment – _so open_ , Cosette thought, and giggled a little to herself – her smile brightened even further.

“But if I am once more at Rochefort, or you at Paris, I will love to visit you again,” she said earnestly. “Perhaps my hopes have not come true during this trip, but it is not wasted. Not at all.

“For I have met a good man.”

M. Chastain was staring at her again. Cosette’s heart went out towards him: was it truly so surprisingly for him to be seen as someone worth meeting, someone worth speaking to?

She made a note to herself to speak to Javert about his time as a prison guard. If they were to change the system of laws, they must not take into account not only the policemen and convicts, but the guards as well.

“I…” M. Chastain ducked his head. “I would like that.”

“Then it will be done,” Cosette declared. She gave him another smile before linking her arm through his.

“Now will you take me out to my friend?” she asked him. “I’m sure she would like to meet you too.”

His eyes flickered between her face and her arm in his. Then he shook his head, laughing to himself, before he nodded. He let her arm stay where it was even as he picked up the helmet and slipped it on again.

“Alright,” he said, and it seemed that he was agreeing to more than just meeting Azelma. “Let’s do that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LOVE COSETTE. And she deserves all the love and sweetness and happiness in the world. Especially Dallas!Cosette because not only does she have the best voice out of every single person in the cast, she is absolutely adorable around both Marius and Valjean. 
> 
> (There’s this one acting choice the actor made that stuck to me: during _One Day More,_ Cosette goes to Valjean and takes his hand, and she tries so hard to smile at him. When he shakes her hand away, she looks so devastated. And my heart just _broke_ for her then. Oh baby.) 
> 
> Also, Frey’s words in Cosette’s flashback in the second section of this chapter is lifted straight from Hugo, from Volume II, Book 2, Chapter 3: The Ankle-chain Must Have Undergone a Certain Preparatory Manipulation to be Thus Broken With a Blow From a Hammer (I love Hugo’s titles)
>
>> France, having re-established _elrey netto_ in Spain, might well have re-established the absolute king at home. They fell into the alarming error of taking the obedience of the soldier for the consent of the nation. Such confidence is the ruin of thrones.
> 
> He is referring to the monarchy regaining power in France, but Frey is talking more generally about the overthrowing of one group by another with the support of the army. Since this is a futuristic AU, Frey has more information from history, and history generally shows that revolutions backed by the military generally ends up in martial law in one form or another, and then terrible suffering for the people (I wrote a very long thing with examples, but I cut it all off because no one wants to read that). Hence I repurposed the quote.
> 
> This, and the fact that Marius still has severe PTSD from the barricades, is the reason why it’s taking such a long time for them to create a revolution. It has to be non-violent and with the full consent of the people. That’s the only reason why it will last beyond them, and will not end up being abused. But to have a revolution like that takes time and constant effort. 
> 
> PS: Comments will come later, Trying to write more chapters, sorry!


	4. Three, 2138 [Part 2 of 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A prostitute’s child marries the dolt she loves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Book I Chapter 4: Three, 3138 [Part 2 of 2]**
> 
> **Warnings:** Tooth-rotting fluff.  
>  **Notes:** Year 4 is already covered in Epilogue One of the original fic. So have a really long chapter for Year 3. This is a continuation of Chapter 3.

“Here, Monsieur,” Azelma said.

Valjean blinked down at the poufy pile of tulle shoved into his direction. His hand closed around it immediately, and remained in the air as he cocked his head at Azelma. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

“You put it on Cosette,” Azelma explained patiently, her voice overriding the snort from the corner of the room. “I think it’s more appropriate that you do it than me.”

Her lips curved up into a smile. “You’ll be giving her away, after all.”

“Not that you’ll be getting rid of me so easily, Papa,” Cosette piped up from where she was sitting on the chair. 

Dressed in her wedding finery, she looked absolutely stunning even without her makeup. Valjean looked at her and could not help but smile, walking over as he lifted the veil over her head. Cosette obligingly kept still.

“Like this?” he asked, gently setting it into her hair. 

“Push it back a little,” Azelma instructed. “See the small teeth attached to the band holding the veil together? That’s supposed to let it stay in her hair.”

Valjean obeyed, feeling silly and a little out of place. Somehow, he managed to do it without undoing the hairstyle that Azelma had painstakingly created.

“You two realise that it’s all going to be ruined the moment she steps up to the altar, right?” Javert’s wry voice interrupted. “Marius is going see her and trip over his own feet. He’ll end up agreeing to marry Cosette’s dress instead of Cosette.”

Azelma shoved her hand over her mouth, but she couldn’t quite stifle the giggle. Cosette glared at Javert over Valjean’s shoulder. “Marius isn’t going to do that!” she protested. Her eyes turned towards Valjean, who hastily tried to hide his own laughter at the mental image. “Right, Papa?”

He looked between his daughter and Javert before he shook his head. “Don’t pull me into this,” he held up his hands in a universal sign of surrender. “Please.”

Javert snorted again, shaking his head. Standing there, leaning one shoulder against the window, he looked utterly relaxed. When he realised Valjean’s eyes on him, his shoulders lifted in a shrug.

Then the sunlight streaming through was caught by the gleaming silver collar and chain still wrapped around his neck and shoulders. Valjean swallowed, tearing his eyes away from it and trying to give Javert a smile that did not tremble at the edges.

No matter what Javert said, no matter how many times he tried to reassure him that he barely even felt the weight of those things anymore, Valjean could never forget. It was an open wound that stung every single time Javert had to walk three steps behind him when they were out on the streets; every single time someone discussed him with Valjean while he was still present, as if he was nothing more than a piece of meat; every single morning when Valjean had to take the chain from its usual place and hook it over the collar again.

Javert’s eyebrow hiked up, and he opened his mouth – most likely to tell Valjean to stop thinking – but he was interrupted before he could make a sound by the door opening.

“Oh good, I’m not late,” Clarisse said in lieu of a greeting. “You haven’t started on her makeup without me, have you?”

“No,” Azelma shook her head. “I wouldn’t know where to start.”

She was the one who suggested that Clarisse should do Cosette’s makeup when the girl refused to have all that done by professional stylists. _I’d rather have my friends with me than some stranger_ , she had insisted. Privately, Valjean thought that she had no need of all of this: even if she walked down the aisle with the only rags and her face bare, she would still look beautiful.

“Well, you’re both lucky to be pretty enough to not need much makeup,” Clarisse said. She waved away their immediate protests, perching on the side of the makeup table, dropping the box she brought upon it.

Then her eyes turned towards Javert. She blinked, and turned her head slowly towards Valjean.

“What are the two of you doing here?” she asked.

“Helping,” Cosette said.

“Giving commentary,” Azelma said, at the same moment. When all eyes turned towards her, she blushed, but didn’t look down. “It’s true,” she muttered.

In his corner, Javert started to laugh. Barely audible, true, but Valjean’s ears were well-trained, and he could not help but smile at the sound.

“Javert is giving commentary, but Papa is helping,” Cosette said, looking extremely pleased with herself for coming up with a compromise. She patted her veil carefully. “Papa put this on me.”

Clarisse gave the veil a critical look. “It’s not a bad job,” she said, reluctantly. Unbidden, Valjean found himself breathing a little easier.

“Still, this is the bride’s dressing room, no men allowed,” she made a shooing motion towards the two of them. “Go away. Go entertain yourselves or something.”

There was a pause. A muscle twitched under Azelma’s eye. Cosette’s hands flailed in the air, like she wanted to bury her face into them but realised she could dislodge her veil by doing so.

“Please don’t have sex in the church,” Clarisse added, a little belatedly.

Valjean did bury his face in his hands. A little distance away, he heard the sound of Javert’s head hitting the glass.

“I mean, it’s not that it’s a bad thing, in fact, it’s kind of hot, really, but Cosette’s going to get married here and the only flat surfaces available are the pews, the floor, or the altar, and—”

“We’re _leaving_ ,” Valjean announced, very loudly. He strode across the room and grabbed Javert blindly by the nearest available limb – thankfully, it was his wrist. He didn’t want to know what Clarisse would have said if he had grabbed a leg instead.

He didn’t look at Javert even as he dragged the man out of the room behind him, careful to not exert too much strength. When the door closed behind him, he sagged against it, burying his face in his hands again.

Even through the wood, he could hear the sounds of the girls bursting into laughter. His face burned even more, but he couldn’t help the smile that tugged up the corner of his lips.

It was a good thing to see Clarisse happy. The past year since her divorce, since she no longer had the threat of a terrible husband or awful parents hanging over her head, had been good for her.

Javert’s footsteps came close. A shoulder nudged against his. Valjean sighed, leaning against the taller frame. When Javert nudged him again, he turned fully, resting his cheek on a shoulder as his arms wrapped loosely around him. Distantly, he wondered when Javert had moved the chain away so he could even do this.

“Still worried that she’s going to leave you once she’s married?” Javert asked.

Of course he would’ve picked up on the niggling thoughts that Valjean had been refusing to acknowledge. He sighed.

“I know she won’t,” he said quietly. “But knowing is very different from believing.”

“You’re the one who told them that they should get married soon,” Javert pointed out.

“That’s only because they had the strange idea of only getting married ‘after the world is fixed’,” he replied, laughing a little as he quoted Marius’s exact words. “They would have ended up having a lifelong engagement if they did, and that’s just foolish.”

“Well,” Javert said, sounding amused. “It’s a good thing that they have someone well-versed in foolish actions and beliefs to advise them otherwise.”

Valjean could protest: there was nothing foolish in his actions or beliefs, especially since he knew Javert was talking about his habit of self-recrimination. But he found himself nodding silently instead, arms tightening around Javert’s body as he sighed.

There had been a heavy weight on his shoulders for all these years; a weight that increased every single time he was called by a false name; a weight that he had grown so used to that he had stopped noticing it and had taken its presence to be right. But these three years had been lifting it off of him, slowly but surely, and he knew that though much of it was living under his true name again, a lot was also having Javert here, right here, in his arms.

They stayed like that in silence for long moments. Beyond the door, he could hear quiet whispers, and the occasional snatches of laughter. He knew he was smiling, and did not try to stop it.

“You know, I just realised something,” Javert said.

“Mm?”

“If I stand on tiptoes,” he continued, shifting a little to do so, “I can actually use your head as my chin rest.”

Valjean pulled back. He stared at him. “Are you calling me short?” he asked finally.

Javert shrugged. “I’m saying that your head would make for a good chin rest,” he said. The corners of his mouth were twitching.

Opening his mouth, Valjean closed it again. If there was one thing he didn’t think he could ever get used to, it was Javert’s utterly _strange_ sense of humour. He didn’t make jokes like anyone else Valjean had ever known; most of the time, Valjean didn’t even realise it was a joke until he was laughing so hard that he was wheezing, and Javert was looking at him with a smug pleasure that had nothing to do with being proven right about something.

“You…” Valjean started. He shook his head, and gave into the laughter bubbling within him, burying his face into Javert’s shoulder again so the sound would not disturb the girls beyond the door.

Javert made a wordless sound, nodding as his arms wrapped around Valjean loosely, letting him lean against him.

When Valjean could breathe again, when he had enough concentration to listen again, Javert said, “You’re not going to lose her, you know. True, she’s going away after the wedding for her honeymoon, but she’ll come back. They’re both going to come back. She’s your _daughter_ and she loves you, and didn’t she just say herself that you’re not going to get rid of her?”

Reaching up, Valjean cupped Javert’s face with both hands, pulling him down and pressing their mouths together. The flow of words stopped immediately, and Valjean gentled the kiss, nipping lightly on Javert’s lips as the other man sighed.

“I’m still absolute shit at trying to comfort people, aren’t I?” he said wryly.

“Thank you,” Valjean said. He smiled, leaning their foreheads against together, his fingers linking together behind Javert’s neck, carefully avoiding the collar. “I’m… I’m not going to believe it until she does come back after the honeymoon, but… thank you. For trying.”

Long, rough knuckled brushed over the side of his face, and Valjean nuzzled against them.

“You don’t have to thank me for that, old man,” Javert said. Then, before Valjean could protest that he was only five years older, Javert’s lips quirked up into a smirk.

“So,” he said conversationally. “What was it that Clarisse said? The pew, the floor, or the altar?”

Valjean opened his mouth. He clacked it shut, and shook his head. “No,” he said firmly.

“Yeah, me neither,” Javert said, shrugging. “I’m actually trying to make sure that I don’t go to Hell here, and I don’t think screwing in a church would help with that.”

He placed a finger over Valjean’s mouth before he could say a word.

“You have your irrational beliefs about your daughter leaving you,” he said. “I have mine about going to Hell.” His smirk smoothed out into a smile, though still lopsided.

“Leave it.”

Valjean nodded. He didn’t want to, but today was not a good day for them to have one of their arguments. There was still a chance that it might turn out explosive, and no matter the kind of explosion that would result, it would end up taking attention away from Cosette and Marius. And that was the last thing Valjean would want.

“Just for today,” he said. Closing his fingers around Javert’s hand, he nudged it with his jaw until the fingers opened, and he pressed a kiss against the palm.

Javert cupped his cheek. When he leaned in again, Valjean kissed him, long and slow and deep, reminding him of the faith he held in him even if he couldn’t do so with words.

When they pulled away to breathe, Javert’s exhale was as heavy as a sigh. Valjean nudged him a little, and they walked the few short steps towards the wall, leaning against it with their shoulders, with their arms still around each other.

They’d have to move when the girls were done, Valjean knew. But until then… Until then, this was just fine with him. 

*

Once, Valjean thought that he would be happy simply watching Cosette with the man she had chosen. He did not need to see her wed, he had thought; he did not need to give her away at her wedding, especially since a public event like that might draw unwanted attention and possibly end up in her ruin.

Now, Valjean knew he had been a fool. His heart had never felt so incredibly full as it did now, with Cosette’s arm linked to his and their steps slow but steady down the aisle. They were preceded by Azelma’s two little brothers: a little too old to be flower boys, but they _had_ insisted. 

Marius looked gobsmacked, his mouth slightly opened, and his grandfather – standing beside him instead of the usual best man, for Marius still grieved for his dead friends and did not wish for anyone to replace them – shook his head, chuckling under his breath with every second.

When they reached the altar, Valjean turned. Cosette smiled at him, bright even beneath the wispy white veil, and she squeezed his hand tightly with hers.

Even now, she still worried.

He shook his head, giving her a smile for reassurance. “Go to him,” he murmured, and lifted her hand off of his arm and offered it to Marius.

Marius didn’t move. His eyes seemed fixed to Cosette. Frey, standing on the other side of him as his sole groomsman, rolled his eyes. He nudged Marius hard enough to make the young man stumble, and Valjean had a sudden vision of Javert’s words about Marius tripping over himself at the altar. But it was only a fleeting thing, because Marius managed to catch himself, his hand closing around Cosette’s.

The smiles they turned towards each other made Valjean’s heart swell yet another size. He ducked his head, trying to hide the tears burning at the edges of his eyes, and walked towards the seat saved for him in the front row of the pews.

Javert handed him a handkerchief with a lopsided smile. Valjean took it, dabbing at his eyes.

“Sorry,” he murmured, trying to keep his voice low so he did not interrupt the priest’s quiet recitation of Cosette’s favourite verses from the Bible. “I’m being embarrassing, aren’t I?”

“You’re always embarrassing,” Javert told him, but there was a peculiar gleam to his eyes that told Valjean he wasn’t serious. Javert’s hand squeezed his shoulder gently, and Valjean nodded, pressing his hand on top of his. The touch was brief, barely there – it was the furthest they usually went while there were others’ eyes on them – but, for now, it was more than enough.

The priest cleared his throat, and Valjean turned his eyes back towards the altar.

“If there is anyone who wish to object to this union, speak now or forever hold your peace.”

At that moment, the door opened. Immediately, Javert’s hand reached towards his chain, clenching it tight – the weapon he used now that he no longer had a gun.

The man who ducked into the church had dark curls and a pale face. He turned around, blue eyes widening when he saw that they were all turned towards him. Valjean choked back an utterly inappropriate laugh as M. Philippe shook his head, then his hands, and walked crab-like towards one of the pews and practically fell over it before sitting down.

“No objections,” he said when the silence continued to stretch on as the priest stared at him with one eyebrow raised. “None. Sorry, I’m just… uh. Late. Sorry. Please… please carry on?”

Cosette giggled. The sound seemed to break the tension, and the priest shook his head. Half-hidden behind Marius, Mathieu rolled his eyes towards the ceiling, but his smile towards his cousin was undeniably fond.

Marius still had a pinched look on his face. But when Cosette took his hand, the expression cleared, and he held onto her fingers tightly as they turned as one to face the priest. 

“Now let the bride and her groom say their vows,” the priest said.

“My beloved is like a roe or a young hart,” Cosette recited, her sweet voice bringing new life to the old words. “Behold, he standeth behind our wall, he looketh forth at the windows, shewing himself through the lattice.”

Marius blushed a little, and Valjean bit back a laugh – the windows were a fence, and the lattice was metal instead of glass, but the words were more literal than they were usually were meant to be.

Smiling behind her veil, Cosette continued: “My beloved spake, and said unto me, Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away. For, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; the flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land.”

Taking her hand, Marius pressed a kiss to her knuckles. His voice was low and quiet as he picked up the thread. “The fig tree putteth forth her green figs, and the vines with the tender grape give a good smell. Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away.”

M. Gillenormand stepped forward, offering the rings to him. Marius smiled at his grandfather, and took the rings. Valjean had seen them before: two bands wrought in platinum that had been polished to a shine, set with matching diamonds and sapphires; the rings that Marius’s parents had used for their own marriage. Rings, Valjean had been told, that M. Gillenormand himself had exchanged with his wife, decades upon decades ago.

Old Gillenormand heirlooms.

Sliding the ring onto Cosette’s finger, Marius met her eyes through the veil. “My beloved is mine, and I am hers: she feedeth among the lilies,” he continued. 

Cosette took the other ring from the box in Mathieu’s hand. She held Marius’s fingers tight, and Valjean thought he saw tears in her eyes. “Until the day break,” she swallowed. “And the shadows flee away, turn, my beloved, and be thou like a roe or a young hart upon the mountains.”

“Do you, Marius Pontmercy, take this woman, Euphrasie Valjean, to be your wife from this day forward, to have and to hold, for better and for worse, for richer and for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?”

“I do,” Marius told Cosette.

“Do you, Euphrase Valjean, take this man, Marius Pontmercy, to be your husband from this day forward, to have and to hold, for better and for worse, for richer and for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?”

“I do,” Cosette told Marius in turn.

The priest smiled. “You have now declared your consent before the church. May the Lord in his goodness strengthen your consent and fill you both with his blessings. What God has joined, men must not divide.”

He paused. “You may kiss.”

Slowly, with trembling hands, Marius lifted the white veil. His breath caught tight in his throat when he finally saw Cosette’s face, and he stood frozen for a moment. Out of the corner of his eye, Valjean saw Clarisse’s smile widen, turning smug at the edges.

Then Cosette’s lips quirked upwards into a lopsided smile. She cupped Marius’s face with both hands and drew him forward.

Valjean looked away when they kissed. It was too intimate a thing for him to witness.

His eyes fell on Javert. He was staring up to the ceiling, his fingers tugging at the collar. Valjean watched, more than a little confused, as long fingers dipped within the collar then outside, fiddling a little with the ring welded to the metal.

Reaching out, he closed his fingers around Javert’s wrist. Startled pale blue eyes turned to his, and Valjean shook his head, squeezing those fingers gently.

“Don’t choke yourself in the middle of the ceremony,” he chided quietly.

Javert’s shoulders drooped a little, and he shook his head. “I won’t,” he said, pulling his fingers away. “Don’t worry about it.”

Valjean opened his mouth, wanting to reassure him. How or about what, he did not know, but he wanted to say _something_. Perhaps he could say: it would be only one year more before Javert would be free; or, Javert belonged here, with all of them, and he had been so for years; or, there were no more crimes and faults that Javert needed to blame himself for, and the collar was unjust. 

But he could not say another word, for there was soft applause all around them. Marius and Cosette were now facing their friends, both smiling widely. While Valjean had been caught in his own thoughts, their kiss had ended, and they were now officially husband and wife.

Javert stood up. When Valjean tried to catch his sleeve, it was too late: he was already walking away, heading towards M. Philippe. Valjean stared behind him, terribly confused, his heart aching with a pain he could not identify.

“Mathieu was giving me some of the books about the laws from before the civil war,” someone said, sitting down next to him on his other side. 

Blinking, Valjean turned. Azelma looked at him with a crooked smile, and she tucked her hair behind her ear.

“Oh?” he asked, stifling down the unkind urge to tell her to go away so he could chase after Javert. Even after years, Azelma was still reluctant to initiate conversations with him.

“Mm.” A gloved finger twirled around one thick strand of her hair, and she tugged on it. “It used to be that the laws listened very little to the laws written in the Bible. The Church was fading out of popularity at the time; not just in France, but all over Europe as well.”

Valjean nodded encouragingly. He still did not know why she was telling him this.

“It’s just that… during the unification, there needed to be _something_ to draw everyone together, and that ended up being the Church,” Azelma continued. She bit her lip before she sighed, shaking her head.

“What I’m trying to say, M. Valjean, is that it used to be perfectly possible for men to marry each other.”

Opening his mouth, Valjean stared. His eyes darted towards Javert where he was in conversation in M. Philippe. Those long fingers Valjean was so familiar with was still twisting and twisting around the end of his chain.

“Is… is that what you think he wants?” 

He couldn’t even imagine it, standing in of an altar with Javert and having God bless their union. 

“I never knew what it is that Monsieur wants,” Azelma said, and her soft laugh was almost sheepish. She tucked back her hair, and her smile evened out, gentling even further. “But… I think he might be afraid.”

“Afraid?” Of what? Valjean had never known Javert to be afraid of _anything_.

“Of losing you, I think,” Azelma told him. Valjean felt his brain practically short out at that statement.

“It’ll only be another year before he is freed from the collar,” she continued quietly when she seemed sure that he could not think of even saying a single word. “After that… there is nothing that ties the two of you together anymore.”

_There is plenty_ , Valjean wanted to say. But the words were stuck in his throat, because he knew exactly how Javert thought. He knew that Javert was not used to intangibility; it was not something he was used to. He always had solid, tangible things – actions, objects – to hold onto.

Once, he had a uniform that proved his dedication to the police and the law; now, he had a collar that... that proved his dedication to _Valjean_.

“Oh,” he said.

Now that Azelma showed him the key, Valjean found revelations practically pouring over his head like an overfull cabinet that had been opened. For Valjean, he needed nothing more than a single time to be convinced, and the memories could last him for years: the sight of Javert willingly getting to his knees, reaching out towards to him; the sound of his voice in the stands, defending Valjean against the law that he had always upheld. But for Javert…

Javert needed repetition. He spent almost every day of his entire life repeatedly defending and upholding the law that he was dedicated to. Now… now he did not seem to be able to spend more than a single day without doing something for the justice that he had found and now believed in. Valjean had thought that it was his restlessness, but…

Every single day, when they returned to the house on the Rue Plumet, Javert would stand there at the door, head tipped back, waiting for Valjean to take off the chain. Every single day, before they left the house, Javert would wait in the same pose for Valjean to hook the chain on. And it was always, _always_ , Javert who would fall three steps behind the moment they stepped out of the gate, whether or not there were any eyes to see it.

Every single morning, once they were dressed – and _only then_ – Javert would take the rosary out from the nightstand drawer where he always kept it. He would look at Valjean, just a single glance, before he tucked it into his pocket. The left side pants pocket, always.

Habits. Rules. _Rituals_. Little intangible things that repeated over and over until they became, if not solid, then constant enough to be considered so.

“Oh,” he said again.

Azelma’s smile widened a little bit more. “I don’t know what to do about this,” she said quietly. “I don’t think it’s possible for us to even think about changing the laws about marriage. Not so soon.”

Valjean shook his head immediately. “There’s no need for that,” he said, eyes turning from her back towards Javert. “It… it won’t suit us, anyway.”

All those around them knew about their relationship, but neither Javert nor himself had ever been comfortable with even brushing their hands against each other’s while in public. To stand in front of others and put into words what they felt… no, that would be far too much.

He turned back towards Azelma. Gently, he took one of her small hands in hers, squeezing it.

“Thank you,” he said. Then he stood from the pew.

Javert looked at him the moment he approached. He was somehow in conversation in M. Gillenormand this time, hands shoved inside his pockets.

“Valjean,” he started.

“Monsieur,” M. Gillenormand said, interrupting him. He reached forward and took both of Valjean’s hands into his own, and the sudden touch made Valjean blink, knocked off-balance.

“I’d like to thank you for giving Marius the permission to marry Cosette,” the old man said, his pale eyes brightly earnest. “I was just telling Javert here about how good she has been for him.”

_Why_ , Valjean wondered, was everyone he met so incredibly polite with him, calling him ‘Monsieur’ despite his protests, while being so casual with Javert? There was little difference between the two of them in terms of station, surely.

He pushed the thought away, focusing back on M. Gillenormand. “There’s no need to thank me for that,” he said. “Cosette is very happy with him, and that is all I ask.”

“Oh, but I must,” M. Gillenormand said. He stepped to the side, cane clicking on the ground, and pointed towards the bride and groom. Cosette was leaning towards M. Philippe, talking to him with a soft smile on her lips. M. Philippe seemed to be apologising, and Marius shook his head and laughed.

“I have never seen that boy so happy,” M. Gillenormand said, voice low. “I have never seen him so _steady_. He has found his place in the world, Monsieur, and he is no longer floundering. That, I believe, has everything to do with Cosette.”

Turning towards Valjean, he shook his head, holding up a finger. Valjean clicked his mouth back shut.

“Even though you might say that you have nothing to do with it, Monsieur,” M. Gillenormand say, “I have met many parents with their children in my long life. And I will say that I am absolutely _certain_ that the way you have brought up Cosette has a lot to do with her current personality.”

Valjean tried to shake his head again, but Javert nudged him with a shoulder. When he blinked, looking up into blue eyes, Javert’s lips were quirked upwards into a small smirk.

“Just take credit when it is given,” he said dryly. “It’s easier.”

That from a man who seemed incapable to doing the same. Valjean huffed, finally reaching out to clasp M. Gillenormand’s thin, wrinkled hands within his own.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. “Thank you, too, for the rings. For blessing their marriage.” _For accepting Cosette_ , he did not say.

But M. Gillenormand seemed to read it from his eyes nonetheless, because the old man chuckled. “How can I do otherwise?” he shrugged. “I like her far too much, and she makes my foolish grandson too happy, for something like a poor heritage to interfere with it.”

Valjean tried to cover up his startled look – the first time he had met M. Gillenormand, he had been a fierce traditionalist and a supporter of all of Our Great Napoleon’s laws – but the old man seemed to have seen it nonetheless, because he laughed again.

“Even an old man like me can change,” he said. “Especially in the face of fiercely passionate children he loves.”

With that, he turned and walked, straight-backed but limping slightly, towards Cosette and Marius. Valjean stared after him, his mouth slightly open.

“A day of surprises,” Javert murmured. He slanted his eyes towards Valjean, and the corner of his mouth quirked upwards again. “Don’t start getting maudlin on me.”

Valjean looked at him in silence for long moments. The chain was wound too tightly around Javert’s neck, so he reached out – without even looking around himself – and gently readjusted it until it was draped more evenly over Javert’s shoulder.

He felt the air catch in Javert’s throat; felt the way his entire body seemed to still. Somehow, Valjean had expected the quiet chatter of the church to fade entirely – but it didn’t. No one turned towards them; no one thought it was abnormal.

Perhaps it was not only Javert who had been afraid. 

Slowly, deliberately, he let his hands slip downwards. He took Javert’s hands into his own, clasping them tight. They trembled slightly. Keeping his eyes on pale blue eyes, he started to raise them to his lips.

“What,” Javert choked out. He wrenched his hands away, and Valjean let him. He let Javert drag him away to a secluded corner of the church, hidden behind an open door, as well.

“What are you _doing_?” Javert hissed.

Instead of answering, Valjean slipped a hand into Javert’s left pant pocket. Javert trembled; a harsh breath rushing out of his mouth. But all Valjean did was to draw out the rosary, holding it as he closed his hand around Javert’s wrist.

“I can do this instead,” he said finally. He wrapped the rosary around Javert’s hand, letting the string slip in between each finger until the crucifix rested between thin, fragile-seeming bones.

“What,” Javert said again. He shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

“If you like, I’ll buy us rings,” Valjean said, tipping his head up slightly so he met Javert’s eyes. “I’ll kiss you on the mouth, right on the streets. I’ll kiss you in front of the reporters.” 

He swallowed hard, and took Javert’s now-bound hand, raising it to his mouth. His tongue darted out, and tasted the skin between the fingers, watching all the time as darkness swallowed up the blue of Javert’s eyes.

“Valjean,” Javert choked out. “I…”

“This,” Valjean said, his hand spreading above the collar, feeling Javert’s jumping pulse beneath his fingertips, “is not the only thing that bind us together.”

His hand slid downwards until it rested above Javert’s broad chest. “Here,” he murmured. “Here is where we are bound. Faith, hope, and love: here.”

Javert’s free hand rose, shaking as his knuckles brushed the side of Valjean’s face. “You don’t have to do this,” he said, eyes falling close. “Not for my sake.”

Turning his head, he nuzzled the hand lightly. “I want to,” he said quietly. “I want you to know exactly how much you mean to me. I want you to have something to hold onto. Something to believe in beyond the thing on your neck.”

Without breaking their gaze, he brushed his hand over the collar again, dipping his fingers beneath it to stroke the skin beneath. “This thing says that you’re my property, and that’s wrong,” Valjean continued. “You’re mine, yes, but I’m yours as well, and I can’t be with this thing in between us.”

Closing his eyes, Javert’s shoulders sagged. He fell forward a little, and Valjean held him and let him lean against him, tilting his head up and brushing his lips against Javert’s cheek.

“I don’t know what it is I need,” Javert said, a bitter laugh threading through his words. “I just… I don’t know.”

“We’ll find it,” Valjean told him, kissing Javert’s hair lightly. His hand tightened on Javert’s, threading their fingers together through the rosary. “We’ll find it.”

Javert drew in a shuddering breath. He straightened, and while his smile was still tremulous at the edges, his eyes were bright and steady on Valjean’s. When he raised their joined hands to kiss Valjean’s knuckles, there was so much love in his eyes that Valjean could not help but lean forward, wrenching their hands out of the way to take his mouth.

He would never tire of kissing this man, he knew. The way Javert tasted, the warmth of his skin, the hunger in his roving hands… There was still so much they had to learn of each other, of themselves, of want. A lifetime would not be enough.

When they pulled away, panting slightly, Valjean reached up and wiped at Javert’s lips with his thumb. Javert shivered, eyes half-lidding.

“God, I…” he said, voice heavy. “I’ve never wanted anyone before you, and you… you make me want so much.” His tongue slid across Valjean’s skin. “So much.”

Valjean shuddered hard. Surely he was a selfish man, because he could not help but feel terribly, viciously pleased that no one had ever seen Javert like this before. No one had tasted him like this; no one had ever made his voice sound like this, wrecked and hoarse, shuddering with desire.

Pulling away his thumb, he took that mouth again, breathing in Javert’s quiet moans. He shifted, pushing Javert against the church’s wall, bracketing him with his body as he slid his tongue over teeth and palate and gums, making Javert shiver and claw at him with one hand.

Three years they had had this, and yet Valjean still could not have enough of this man.

When he pulled away again, he looked at Javert. His eyes were dark and heavy-lidded, his mouth wet and swollen, and his cheeks were dusted with pink. Valjean cupped one cheek, stroking his thumb across the curve, and he could feel Javert’s growing arousal against his thigh.

“Mine,” he said.

“Yours,” Javert murmured. His eyes opened, and he swallowed hard. “Not because of the law, or the collar, or anything. Yours, because I want to be.”

Valjean wanted to kiss him again; wanted to kiss him and never stop, to take him right here, against this wall, until those muffled moans turned into full, shameless cries that echoed throughout this church.

He shook his head hard. God, they were worse than newlyweds, worse than teenagers.

Taking a deep breath, he took a step back. Javert blinked at him, muzzy, before he seemed to shake himself entirely. His free hand brushed through his hair, trying to neaten it, but it only messed it up even further.

Laughing to himself, Valjean reached up, combing the strands in their proper direction. Javert’s eyes crossed a little as they turned upwards, trying to follow his movements.

“We should go back,” Valjean said, stamping down the urge to kiss him again. “Marius and Cosette will be leaving for their honeymoon soon.”

Javert looked at him for a moment before he laughed to himself. “You’ll have to let me go first,” he said, and raised their hands, still tangled together with the rosary.

Reluctantly, Valjean extricated his hand from the strings. But before Javert could withdraw his, he kissed the knuckles again.

He determinedly did not look at anyone when they stepped out from behind the door together, especially not the priest. Beside him, Javert had shoved his hands into his pocket again, but his lips were twitching at the corners. Again, Valjean found himself stamping down the urge to kiss him.

When they walked out of the church, he found himself with an armful of Cosette. Startled, he wrapped his arms around his daughter, holding her through the layers of satin and silk that were her wedding dress.

“I was going to ask if you’ll be alright when we go, Papa,” Cosette said, her voice soft in his ear, “but I don’t think I need to ask anymore.”

Valjean blinked. Cosette pulled back, and she giggled a little when she tapped on her own mouth. When he reached up to touch his lips, he realised that they were still wet. Immediately, he scrubbed at them with his sleeve, trying his best to not blush. Slanting his eyes, he tried to glare at Javert, but he was determinedly looking in the opposite direction.

Cosette threw her head back and laughed. She hugged him once more, her hands stroking across his back. Valjean buried his face in her hair, kissing the strands gently before he pulled back.

“We’ll be back in a month,” she said. She looked at if she was going to say something more, but shook her head and giggled again instead. Valjean tried to think about what it was that she had left unsaid.

“Take care of yourself,” he told her. His lips twitched upwards. “Try not to get yourself embroiled in dangerous things.”

She nodded, leaning in and kissing his cheek. “I will,” she promised. Then she grinned cheekily. “I’ll make sure that Marius will do that all that too.”

Valjean nodded, biting back another laugh. Years ago, he had been content to allow Marius to take care of Cosette; nowadays, he knew it was the other way around that was more common.

Cosette stepped back. Valjean expected to join Marius, who was waiting a little distance away having spoken in low tones to Javert. 

But she turned around in a flurry of white dress and threw her arms around Javert instead. Valjean choked back a laugh at Javert’s poleaxed expression, at how his hands seemed to twitch in mid-air as if he didn’t know what to do with them.

She leaned up on the very tip of her toes and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you,” she said, and before he could ask her what she meant – Valjean could see the question in his eyes – she was already walking away.

Marius came towards them. Valjean stuck out his hand, and Marius looked at it. He shook his head, and wrapped his arms around Valjean instead, holding him tight for a long moment. 

“We won’t be gone long, and we won’t get into trouble,” Marius said. He was smiling widely at Valjean’s clearly-shocked face when he pulled back. “I promise, Papa.”

Valjean’s mouth dropped open. Javert reached over and closed it for him gently, because Marius was already half-jogging towards his new wife, shouting, “Coming!”

“I hope it won’t be _that_ fast,” Clarisse murmured, _sotto voce_ , and when Valjean threw her a dirty look over the heads of everyone who was suddenly choking or coughing, she just shrugged. 

“ _Someone_ had to make that joke,” she said.

The car’s engine started, cutting off Valjean’s reply. He turned to watch as both Marius and Cosette turned back, waving enthusiastically. Then Cosette grabbed her new husband and kissed him, and Valjean, amused, could hear the quiet squawk that he made as they fell backwards onto the leather seats.

“Who wants to bet how many new causes they’re going to come back with?” Mathieu spoke up. “I’m thinking of at least five.”

“God, I hope not,” M. de Courfeyrac said. When he felt the eyes on him, he shrugged, clearly uncomfortable with the attention. “I only have that much time. _They_ only have that much time.”

“At least ten,” M. Philippe said. He grinned, brushing back his curls. “They chose a tour around France for their honeymoon. They will probably end up working despite themselves.”

“Great,” M. de Courfeyrac muttered, dragging a hand over his face. “I’ll clear my schedule for the month after next, then.”

Frey snorted. “Make that two months,” he said dryly. “No, actually. Make that a year.”

“I didn’t raise my daughter to become a revolutionary,” Valjean commented to the skies, his lips twitching. “How did that happen?”

He shrugged when all of the eyes turned towards him.

M. Gillenormand was the first to start laughed. “From what Cosette has said, Monsieur,” he shook his head. “You _did_.”

Valjean blinked. He considered that statement for a moment, then shook his head. “I don’t see…” he started.

“Oh, shut up,” Javert told him, snorting. “Just admit that you’re an inspiration to people and give it a rest.”

He gave Valjean a crooked smile.

“I…” Valjean said, and stopped when Javert cocked his eyebrow at him. He huffed a laugh. “I suppose so.”

Long fingers curled around his, squeezing gently. Valjean started, but Javert wasn’t looking at him. He squeezed back, and stared at the ground so he would not have to meet the eyes that were on them.

“I suppose so,” he repeated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t ask me anything about Valjean and Javert anymore. I don’t know how these two ended up like this. I have lost control over them a long, long time ago.
> 
> I did mention tooth-rotting fluff, right? I nearly gave myself metaphorical diabetes writing this. I hope it did the same to you reading this.


	5. Five, 2140

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The policeman goes back to his post. The wheels of change turn faster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> **Book I Chapter 5: Five, 2140**  
> 
> 
> **Warnings:** Plot. This is just plot.

“Don’t shoot,” Javert repeated. “No matter how loud they get, no matter how fiercely they yell, you _must not shoot_.”

The roomful of police officers all looked doubtfully back at him. A few of them fidgeted before one hesitantly raised his hand.

“Are you really sure that they won’t attack, M. Javert?” he asked.

Javert turned towards him, resisting the urge to drag his hand through his hair. This was not the first time he had to answer this question; not even the third, in fact.

“Look,” he said, biting back a sigh but unable to keep the frustration from his voice. “Marius Pontmercy is going to do his damned best to keep the protestors from getting violent. But if anyone of you fire the first shot, everything is going to go to hell.”

His eyes narrowed. “Do you _want_ a repeat of June six years ago?”

“No one wants a repeat of that,” a voice drawled. Javert lifted his eyes to meet Verdier’s from where he was leaning against the wall at the back of the briefing room. 

“But I know what they’re all worried about here, Javert.” Verdier pushed himself from the wall, thumbs shoving into the hems of his uniform trousers, pushing his coat open even more. “Wherever there were protests, they tend to end up violent. Blood ends up everywhere.”

“Usually it is the police who shoots first,” Javert said, holding up a hand to stop the instinctive protests. “You know I’m right about that. _They_ usually don’t have guns, and this time, we know that none of them do.”

“Can we really know that, though?” the man who first asked the question spoke up again. “Can we really trust Pontmercy at his word?”

This time, Javert gave into the urge to drag his hand through his hair. He was frustrated, incredibly so. He did not even know why _he_ was here to try to convince these men to not shoot; not only could M. Chabouillet could simply _order_ them to do so, Javert had only been reinstated to his position for a few months, and there were quite a few officers who had only known him as a slave instead of an equal.

“He has never given you a reason to not trust him,” he pointed out, the words escaping him in a sharp huff. When the man made to speak, Javert shook his head.

“Take _my_ word if you cannot trust his,” he said. 

“That’s a hell of a weight on your shoulders,” Verdier pointed out, still drawling. His eyes were terribly bright and sharp beneath the heavy, lazy lids. “Are you sure you’re willing to carry it?”

“If it means that all of you won’t think about firing your guns during the protest,” Javert answered immediately, entirely sure about what he was saying. Even though he knew that he might be signing the death warrant to his entire career and that he might even find himself back in jail for this, he was perfectly willing to stake it all on this.

The protest _had_ to go smoothly. If not, all that they had been working for the past five years would be wasted entirely.

“Look, I know that I’m not the only one who thinks that the protest is right,” Javert said quietly. “How much time do we spend hunting down children who ran away from their parents, or wives from their husbands? How much time do we waste doing that when we can actually spend our time hunting down the real monsters?”

A ripple went through the men. Many of them looked down, fidgeting with the handles of their guns. Javert sighed.

“How many times did any of you deliver those kids, those women, back to whoeer they supposedly belong to, and think that it’s _wrong_?”

“Didn’t think you’d be the one telling us that the law needs to change,” Verdier said, a hint of amusement in his voice.

It took a great amount of effort for Javert to not reach up to his neck. He didn’t have the collar to fiddle with anymore. There was no pressure around his throat, not even a piece of cloth, and there had not been one for almost a year. He had nothing to reach for.

Especially since the collar was not what had convinced him about the need for change.

“People can change,” he said, clenching his hands loosely by his side instead. He pushed down the urge to smirk as well, forcing away the memory of the words he had once said to Valjean: _Men like you can never change; men like me can never change._

They could, if they wanted to.

“And you know this change has been coming for a long time,” he finished.

Verdier held up his hands. “I’m done,” he said, lips twitching upwards into the first sincere smile since the whole briefing began. “I have nothing to say after that.”

Javert turned his eyes towards the other officer who had spoken up. His mind searched for names, and finally found it.

“Fournier?”

The man shook his head. “God, I don’t know if I can control my instincts fast enough,” he said. “But hell, I’ll try.”

Agreeing murmurs went out throughout the room. Javert looked at all of them for a moment more before he took out his own gun and placed it, deliberately heavy, on the table beside him.

“I’m leaving my gun behind,” he said. When wide eyes turned to stare at him, he grinned at the men. “And I’m one of those most likely to get shot, yeah. I know that too.”

“You’re willing to take _that_ big of a gamble?” Verdier said, clearly voicing out what the others were thinking. His eyebrows had shot up to his hairline. “There won’t just be protestors out there, you know. There’ll be bastards who would take the chance to shoot someone they don’t like. And you are…”

He made a vague gesture towards Javert’s direction. Javert knew what he was trying to say: despite five years away from the field, Javert was still one of the clearest symbols of the police force in Paris. His reputation wasn’t so easy to get rid of, it seemed.

“That’s _exactly_ why I’m leaving my gun behind,” he said. He took out his baton and dropped it on the table as well. “I’m walking in unarmed, in front of all of you.”

“A political statement?” Fournier asked.

“Hell no,” Javert shook his head. He left the politics to Marius and Frey and those who actually knew what the hell they were talking about. 

“But if I’m unarmed,” he made the same gesture as Verdier did, “then it’ll show the protestors that we’re serious about not making this violent. Then they won’t overreact. Then none of _you_ will. Meaning that the protest might actually get somewhere.”

There was a long silence. Javert crossed his arms, and waited.

Verdier peeled himself from the wall. Without a word, he removed his gun and his baton, dropped them on the table as well. When Javert looked at him, he shrugged a little, as if to say, _What the hell else did you expect?_

Then he turned and looked at the other, younger officers. His eyebrow rose.

Well. That was one down, at least.

There was another few heartbeats of silence before Fournier broke.

“Fuck,” he said. “Fuck it.”

He stood up. Shouldering past the others, who all turned towards him, he strode down the hallway and slammed his gun down onto the table. His eyes turned towards Javert for a moment before he wrenched his baton from its holster and slammed it down as well.

Then he took out his handcuffs. “Do you want me to give this up as well?” he asked. Despite the challenge in his eyes, the question seemed sincere enough.

Javert barked a laugh. “There’s still going to be bastards out there,” he said, lips quirking up slightly. “You’ll need those. I will too.”

“Great,” Fournier said. He shook his head hard. “If I meet any, I’ll bitchslap them with the cuffs before arresting them.”

“If that’s what you want to do,” Javert said.

Fournier shook his head. “Crazy bastard,” he murmured under his breath. Then he turned towards the rest of the officers.

“Well? Are you bastards going to get upstaged by the old men?” He grinned, showing a mouth full of teeth. “Or are you all saying that we young men are scared of shit that the old ones aren’t?”

“Shut the fuck up,” one of the other officers grumbled, standing up. Javert recognised him immediately: it was Delattre, and he had remained uncharacteristically silent throughout the whole briefing.

Now he was walking down the room from the back row where he was seated. “Just because some of us would rather keep our traps shut,” he said, “doesn’t mean that we’re cowards.”

He punctuated with words with two simultaneous slams of his gun and baton onto the table, glaring at Fournier all the while.

“We’re just waiting for you to get that rat out of your ass so we can actually do what we want to do,” he finished.

They glared at each other. Then Delattre huffed, looking away from Fournier. His eyes met Javert’s, and he gave him a nod, almost low enough to count as a bow.

“I’ve been convinced since you started talking, Monsieur,” he said. 

While Fournier rolled his eyes, Javert looked between the two of them. He figured that there was some kind of rivalry between them – it was obvious enough – but he wasn’t going to be the one to break it up or interfere. Let them be idiots all they wanted as long as it didn’t get in the way of their jobs.

Slowly, one by one, the officers in the room stood and came forward. The table started filling with guns and batons, some of them practically thrown down like gauntlets, others dropped almost carelessly, and even a few hesitantly and carefully placed as if the officers they belonged to did not know if they were doing the right thing.

But after five minutes or so, the table was overflowing, and every man in the room was unarmed. Javert looked at all of them.

This was far more than he had expected. All he had thought he would receive was some kind of promise that none of them would fire during the protest; a promise, he knew, that not all of them would be able to keep, which meant that he would likely have to jump in at the first sign of gunfire. But now…

Now they would be walking into the protest unarmed. _All_ of them making a choice based on their faith in his words. In _him_.

It was almost too dizzying to think about. Javert took a shuddering breath.

“I’ll talk to Pontmercy and the protestors,” he said, looking from one side of the group of men to the other, meeting all of their eyes. “I’ll make sure that none of them would be armed. There is no reason for them to be.”

“We might all be fired for this, you know,” Verdier said. He sounded almost amused by the thought.

Javert shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he said. “M. Chabouillet _did_ say that he wants the protest to go well,” or else none of them would be having this conversation in the first place. “And there is strength in numbers. There are too many of us here to be easily replaced.”

Well, there was still the fact that _he_ might be fired for this, given that he was clearly the ringleader. Our Second Napoleon might even send down a personal order for it.

“Even if we are,” Delattre spoke up. “It’ll be fine, I think. To lose our jobs for what’s right.”

“Says the guy without kids to feed,” Verdier said, chuckling. “But, fuck that. I agree with the kid.”

He looked at Javert. “Just make sure that none of us die or get fired for this, alright?”

More weight on his shoulders. More responsibility. The lives _and_ livelihood of over two hundred men. Javert took a deep breath, meeting Verdier’s eyes. Then he turned and looked at the rest of them, realising that they were all looking at him.

No, he had never been a man for politics. He had never wanted to be a leader of so many. A squad of four or five men, yes, he could deal with. But so many? So damned many?

But if not him, who else? Who else could do this, especially since M. Chabouillet had deliberately stepped back, saying that the fight was not his? This _was_ Javert’s fight. Hell, this was justice.

“Yeah,” he said finally, nodding. “Yeah. I’ll make sure. Don’t worry.”

His word should not mean so much to these men, but Javert felt the collective sigh of relief like a sudden wind that nearly knocked him off of his feet. The weight of their expectations pressed down upon him even more, almost enough to choke, and it was only through his long-honed self-control that he did not clench his hands.

Still, he could not meet those eyes anymore. He turned, looking out of the window of the room. This was _justice_ , he reminded himself. And there was nothing, absolutely nothing, he would not do in order to see justice done.

Justice. Not merely for Azelma and Clarisse, who had been so badly treated by these laws. But for the future as well. There, beyond the Seine, beyond the buildings, all the way to the south, was Fontainebleau; a town and a castle that was nothing more than a glorified cage for a man who should have the power to change all that was wrong with this country and yet could not because of the laws that justified the bars around him.

If the protest worked, if the emancipation law went through, then M. Philippe could fight to free himself of his father. He would no longer need to sneak out like a thief whenever he needed to have meetings with Marius and Frey. He would be able to appear in front of the people and lead them like the man he _should_ be.

“We’re going to see this through,” he told the police officers, all his men now. “We’re going to set them free. 

“Yeah!” Delattre yelled, punching his fist into the air. There was a moment of startled silence, then Javert watched as the others laughed just once to themselves before they joined in as well, the cheer growing loud enough to fill the room entirely.

Beside him, Verdier shook his head, a smile tugging at his mouth. “Police officers behaving like revolutionaries,” he murmured, eyes darting to Javert. “What the hell is this world coming to?”

“A better world,” Javert whispered back.

They watched as the officers streamed out of the door, chattering to each other about tomorrow, their shoulders relaxed despite the weapons they had left behind.

“I don’t believe in that yet,” Verdier said, shoving his hands into his pocket. When Javert blinked at him, he grinned. “But I’m taking a gamble, nonetheless.”

“It’s one we’re all taking.”

What was the line again? Ah, yes.

 _Tomorrow is judgment day_.

***

Here, outside the gate of the Castle Fontainebleau, the heat of the summer sun beat down on them relentlessly. The stamping and cries had been going on for more than a day, yet the supposed leader of the country still had not emerged to face his people.

Marius wiped his face with his sleeve. When Cosette handed him a water bottle, he took it from her and kissed her cheek, taking a long gulp.

He had expected this, of course: when the police did not detain them on their journey from Notre Dame down here, the greatest weapon Our Second Napoleon – _Louis-Jérôme_ , Marius reminded himself, no matter that it still seemed like sacrilege to use the man’s name, even in his own head – had against them was his complete silence. If he would not listen, then their shouts and protests would reach nowhere.

But the people would not stop. The people would not relent. The stamping and shouting had not stopped for a single moment: it had continued, endlessly, even as separate sections of the protestors had stopped and rested.

When they first left Notre Dame, there had only been one thousand following Marius’s lead. But now, more than a day after, there were surely over fifty times that number gathered outside the gates of Fontainebleau, spilling the gardens, taking over the entire town. Marius could barely believe it: his eyes had nearly bugged out of his head when he had turned back the first time and saw just _how_ large the crowd had gotten. He had choked on his own words when he heard in his headset that the news reporters had counted the crowd, and the people numbered over a hundred thousand and was still growing.

This was meant to only be a small protest; a beginning. The cause was not one that many agreed with: changing the laws to allow for the easier emancipation of minors and the divorces of wives, such that they were would not considered criminals if they were living alone. Their families would not have the right to call the police on them, as if they were returning property.

“It’s not for the cause that they had come,” Frey had told him hours earlier, his hands shoved into his pockets with his eyes fixed upon the Castle. “It’s for the protest itself.”

Perhaps that was why. This was the first protest that had received so much traction: not only had violence not broken out at all during the primary march, but the police had not tried to stop them. The officers had followed them instead, Javert walking silently beside Marius in a steady gait, his fellows behind him. Not marching with them, but not stopping them.

Marius closed his eyes, praying silently that their leader would _listen_. Just the willingness would do. That was all he wanted. That was all they needed. 

This protest could not fail; not now, not when the National Guard had allowed them into the town and right up to the Castle gates themselves. They were lingering around the edges of the walls, still looking unsure, hands on their guns.

These men had tried to stop them when they first approached. But they had looked at first Marius, then Javert, and their hands at their guns had shook. Still, Marius knew that the credit for allowing them past the borders of the town did not belong to him: it was Javert who had spoken to the leader of the Guards, convincing them somehow. 

If this protest failed now… If it failed, the people would lose hope. Then everything would return to how things were before: when the people were not listened to when they tried for a peaceful protest, all they had left was violence. And Marius could not – simply _could not_ – allow for that to happen. 

Not after his friends’ deaths. Not after Javert had convinced the police somehow to come with them entirely unarmed. Not after all that they had done so far and the efforts they had put in.

Change could not, _must not_ , come only from the Cour. It could not come only from Marius and the few judges whom he could trust to be righteous. He was only a man, and as a man, he was imperfect within himself, incapable of becoming a representative for the varied peoples of Paris, much less the country as a whole. 

He learned that during his honeymoon, if nowhere else. Nothing had convinced him so much about his own ignorance, about the depth and breadth of what needed to be changed, than the trip he took with Cosette throughout France. There were so many in dire straits, even direr than the poor and wretched in Paris, and Marius’s heart had gone out to them all.

This protest must succeed. It _must_. They could not give up.

Clasping his hands together, Marius bowed his head. _Please listen_ , he begged, hoping somehow that his prayer could be heard beyond the tall gates and heavy walls. _Please, please listen to us. All we want is to be listened to. Please_.

“Someone’s coming out of the Castle!”

His eyes snapped open. It couldn’t be; he thought wildly. It couldn’t be that his prayer was answered so quickly, so immediately.

Frey came up beside him. He bent, picking up the bottle from where Marius had dropped it, and drained the rest of it.

“It’s Philippe,” he said quietly. “Old Louis-Jérôme still won’t show his face.”

When Marius focused his eyes on the figure exiting the heavy door of the Castle, he realised that Frey was right: it was M. Philippe who walked towards them. He stopped right in front of the gates, looking at all of them. Then, before the Guards could even begin to open it, he began to climb.

Slowly, the crowd’s stamping and shouting faded off into mutters. Over two hundred thousand pairs of eyes watched as the Petit-Aigle grabbed onto the metal of the gate and climbed up, inch by inch, until he reached the top. Standing there on thin metal bars, he swayed for a few breathless moments before he straightened himself.

“What the hell does the idiot think he’s _doing_?” Frey murmured, sounding endlessly frustrated. “Jesus Christ.”

Despite the blasphemy, Marius agreed wholeheartedly with him.

M. Philippe looked down. Blue eyes fixed upon Marius and Frey first, and he smiled a little before he tipped his head back and scanned the entire crowd. Slowly, he reached up and pressed a button to the side of his ear. Four tiny spheres lifted from his pockets, moving on their own to the four corners of the crowd. M. Philippe raised another one above his head, barely steady on his feet, and the projector casted a hologram of his face large above his head.

“Citizens of France,” he began, voice amplified by the speakers until it echoed around all of them. “My people.”

He paused. The crowd took a collective breath.

“My people,” he repeated. “I know why you’re here, and I am here to declare that I… I am with you.” He looked straight into the sphere; behind him, the projection’s eyes met all of theirs. 

“I am with you, but my father will not listen.”

“ _Shit_ ,” Frey said. Marius, without knowing what he was doing, reached out and grabbed his arm. When Frey glared at him, he shook his head.

Somehow, he was sure that this was how things should go.

“With a single wave of his hand, my father, as leader of the country, can undo all of the changes that have been done these past five years,” M. Philippe continued. “He can have M. Jean Valjean arrested again. He can have M. Javert made into a slave again. He can even jail M. Marius Pontmercy and Mme. Euphrasie Pontmercy on charges of treason.”

The crowd murmured, clearly unhappy. Marius tightened his grip on Frey.

“But he has not. He has not, for even a leader could not deny change when it comes to the country it rules.” He swallowed hard. The hologram trembled, just a little. “Even a _dictator_ can do nothing when his policemen and National Guard could not deny the change. When his army itself wants such change.”

He took a long, deep breath. “It has been long been coming, this change. I am here… I am here to thank you for your patience. I am here to thank you for your faith, for you have come here in peace. You have not stormed the gates, but waited instead. For that, I sincerely thank you.”

“ _Don’t move_ ,” Marius whispered to Frey when the man continued to struggle against the hand on his arm. “He’s giving us a chance.”

“A chance that may get him _killed_ ,” Frey hissed back, his eyes growing bright and wild. “Let me go so I can stop him before his father orders him _shot_.”

Marius shook his head. “Listen to him,” he urged. “Just… listen to him. Don’t do anything. You might ruin what he might have spent the last day convincing his father to do.”

“I stand here before you on this fence for I am a prisoner too,” M. Philippe said, his eyes fixed upon the projector in front of him. He swayed slightly as if in emphasis. Beside Marius, Frey had fallen completely silent.

“For long years, I have not been able to leave this Castle without official reason, and even then, I had to be accompanied by a procession of Guards. Like you, I, too, am a prisoner of unfair laws. And now, as a prisoner, I bring you news.”

Steadying himself with one hand on top of the fence, M. Philippe lifted his eyes from the projector, eyes scanning the crowd again.

“For this reason, for the sake of this change all of you have wrought, I have made a gamble with my father,” M. Philippe continued. His voice was as firm as his feet. 

“I have gambled that if I have come out here, I will not be attacked; that if I asked for one man – only _one man_ – to enter this Castle and speak to my father, to convince him of your cause, you will not agree.”

 _No_. Marius’s eyes widened. _Surely not_.

“Give me a name, my people. Give me a name.”

Slowly, the crowd began to murmur among themselves. Marius held his breath, giving Cosette a panicked glance. She smiled at him.

The murmurs coalesced into a name. _His_ name.

“Pontmercy! Pontmercy! Pontmercy!”

Marius felt dizzy. He swayed a little on his feet, hand slipping from Frey’s arm. Now it was Frey’s turn to steady him, a strong hand grabbing onto his elbow. Cosette came to his other side. The two of them practically held him up as the people’s chant grew into a roar that filled his ears entirely.

He had never meant to become a representative of the people. He had never wanted to become a leader. All he had wanted was to right the wrongs that he saw. That was all, and it should… it should not have come to this.

“M. Marius Pontmercy!” M. Philippe’s voice cried out. Marius jerked his head up, and he met M. Philippe’s eyes. The man smiled at him lopsidedly.

“Will you come and speak to my father, Our Second Napoleon, on the behalf of our people?”

No, Marius had never wanted to become a leader. Yet, somehow, they had chosen him.

Taking a deep breath, he straightened. He nodded to first Cosette, then Frey. Deliberately, he took a step forward, then another, until he was standing right below the fence.

“Catch,” M. Philippe said.

Eyes widening, Marius nearly flailed and fell over – _what_ a joke of a representative he would be if that had happened – as he caught the projection sphere. Behind M. Philippe’s back, the huge hologram changed to show Marius’s face. He swallowed hard, looking deep into the machine’s blinking lights before he nodded.

“Yes,” he said. His own voice echoed around him. He stifled a flinch; he stifled the urge to look back to Cosette for reassurance. He steadied himself further. “Yes, I will.”

M. Philippe nodded. Pushing himself away from the fence, he jumped down. His feet landed on the grass, and Marius watched as he gestured towards the Guards at the side of the fence.

Metal hinges creaked as they opened. Marius, holding on tightly to the sphere, walked through them.

The ground inside the fence did not feel any different from that outside. The air seemed as hot and arid as ever. The sight of the Castle in front of him did not change very much. 

Yet, somehow, it seemed to be another world.

Shifting his grip on the sphere onto one hand, Marius reached out. He grabbed M. Philippe’s arm, pulling him close. He fixed the sphere’s mechanical eyes towards the two of them, standing side by side.

“We have come here in protest,” he said, the words coming from depths within himself that he could barely name. “But no protest could ever work if our leaders do not listen. Yet M. Philippe has listened.

“My people, hear this! If we achieve victory from this, it is not ours alone. It is _together_ , with our leaders. With them, not against them. For we are not enemies here.” He took a deep breath, and repeated again. “We are not enemies. We must stand together to further this tide of change.”

Lowering the sphere, he looked at the crowd. He could not see them all from where he was standing, but he hoped that they could feel the weight of his gaze and conviction nonetheless. 

M. Philippe took the sphere from him. He pressed a button by the side of his ear again, and the four smaller ones flew back towards him, sticking to the side of the largest sphere. Marius watched as M. Philippe pocketed it.

They turned towards the Castle together.

“Nice speech,” M. Philippe said under his breath as they walked, side by side, towards the Castle.

“The same to you,” Marius said, laughing shakily. Then he fell silent as M. Philippe pushed open the door and stepped inside.

Five years he had spent fighting this man from afar. For the first time, he would be meeting him. The cause was small, perhaps, yet it would be symbolic of the possibility of change that did not come from violence, but from the people speaking and the leader listening. 

The first step, perhaps, to washing away the blood that still lingered in his mind. The first step towards exorcising the ghosts of the barricades that still haunted at the edges of his vision. 

His hand clenched into a tight fist by his side. Nails dug into his palm.

He walked inside.

*

“Marius Pontmercy. Grandson of the old horse Gillenormand.” A sharp, barking laugh. “Of all the families that would betray the House of Napoleon, I would have thought yours to be the last.”

The man in front of him smiled. It was unpleasant: too many teeth, eyes far too wild. “But given the man your father was… I suppose I should not be surprised.”

Clenching his hand even tighter, Marius used the sharpening pain to centre himself so he would not react instinctively towards that insult to his father.

“We are not here to talk about my father, Monsieur,” he said quietly.

Louis-Jérôme’s eyes flashed at the insult. But his smile widened instead of fading.

“But you are here to talk about fathers and sons,” Louis-Jérôme said, raising an eyebrow. “About the rights of sons to disavow their fathers and to live alone.”

Beside Marius, M. Philippe tensed.

Marius shook his head. “Not only fathers and sons,” he said. “Fathers and daughters. Mothers and sons. Mothers and daughters. Husbands and wives.” He tipped his head up a little higher, looking at Louis-Jérôme from slightly-lowered lids. “All those who have been made powerless by the law, placed under the charge of another.”

Louis-Jérôme made a considering hum. “The laws are made so because those little creatures can’t make their own decisions,” he said. Folding his hands together, he rested his elbows on the table, leaning forward on the wide expanse of his desk. He did not invite Marius or M. Philippe to sit down.

“Every person has their own role in this country,” he continued. “Men in charge of the household, with his wife and children beneath him.” He cocked his head. “Are you telling me that you will be fine with your wife running amok, doing whatever she likes, without your permission?”

Taking a deep breath through his nose, Marius relaxed his hands. He strode forward, grabbing a chair and dropping down onto it. Louis-Jérôme’s other eyebrow raised, but he did not make a protest

“I will be fine with it, Monsieur,” he said. “For I trust her and she is no lesser than me for being a woman.” Deliberately, he paused. “I know, too, that if I try to cage her, she will fade, or even take her own life.”

The loud crash resounded in his ears. Marius did not struggle when he felt hands grip onto his collar, dragging him forward. He only threw out an arm, stopping M. Philippe from interfering.

“Don’t speak of things you don’t understand,” Louis-Jérôme growled.

“Then _make_ me understand,” Marius replied. He kept his voice soft, and his eyes on the older man.

Louis-Jérôme snorted. “Why don’t you make _me_ understand?” He threw back. “You’re the one who came here to ask something of me.” His lips twisted into a sneer. “ _Freedom_ for women and children from their husbands and parents. Why would you want such a thing?”

“It’s rather difficult to explain when you’re choking me,” Marius said, voice calm. He added, a little belatedly, “Monsieur.”

When he was released, he gripped tightly onto the arms of the chair so he didn’t immediately fall back into it. Instead, he lowered himself far more gently before neatening his collar again.

“I’m not choking you anymore,” Louis-Jérôme said, still standing.

Marius tipped his head up, meeting that dark gaze firmly. Distantly, he noted that M. Philippe did not resemble him very much. “Well,” he began. “I know plenty of children who have had a terrible life because their parents did not deserve to be one.”

He sighed, rubbing a hand through his beard. “I had a friend named Éponine. Her life had been cold and dark and terrible: she learned how to steal and cheat by the time she was five, or even younger.” Closing his eyes, he sighed. 

Even now, he could see her: the blood on her shirt, the blood on her lips, her tremulous hand as she reached out towards his face to try to touch him.

 _Monsieur Marius, I think… I think I might have been a little in love with you_.

No, he could not return her love. He was far too late by the time he was made aware of her feelings towards him, and even so… he loved Cosette with all of himself, and there was nothing left for her except his friendship, no matter how much he tried. All it would have ended up with was guilt for all three of them.

All he could do now was to ensure that her circumstances never happened to anyone else again.

“Despite all that, she was still good,” he continued, opening his eyes to meet Louis-Jérôme’s sceptical gaze again. “Even though I did little for her, she gave all she could to help me, without asking anything in return. For a girl like that to suffer because she was disallowed to leave her parents… that is not fair. That is not just.”

Before Louis-Jérôme could speak, he held up a hand. “Let me continue. She is not the only one I know.”

When Louis-Jérôme leaned back on his seat, he continued. 

“There is another girl, Éponine’s sister. Her name is Azelma. Her parents… they sold her, Monsieur, like little better than cattle. When something happened to her, something that was entirely their fault, she was abandoned by them, abandoned like her two little brothers – neither of them older than nine – and she had to make a living on her own while supporting them. She managed to find a job, but because she was not fully an adult… she earned far, far less than she should. She had to starve herself just to send her brothers to school.

“Is that fair, Monsieur? Is that just?”

“I believe I know the girls you talked about,” Louis-Jérôme said slowly. “They are children of that man Thénardier, aren’t they? The habitual criminal?”

“Yes,” Marius nodded. 

“Well, that is the fault of the man, not of the laws,” Louis-Jérôme scowled fiercely. “We cannot make an exception just because one man abused the law, especially if he’s a beast of a criminal who deserved his death sentence.”

Marius bit back a sigh along with his urge to slump or run his hand over his face. He shook his head instead.

“It is _precisely_ the law that allowed a man like that to abuse his position, Monsieur,” he said, resisting the urge to stand up. He crossed his legs instead. “He would not have been able to do what he did to his children if the law has not allowed him to do so.”

“Are we to make different laws for every man, then?” Louis-Jérôme asked, lips curling into a sneer. 

“The laws _must_ take note of the different circumstances of every man,” Marius insisted.

“That’s the job of lawyers and judges.”

“But they are flawed men, and they are each blinded in their own ways. We cannot expect them to understand everything to judge everything justly.” He took a deep breath, and pressed on. “That is what the law is for. If the right to swing one’s arm ends where another’s nose begins, then the law must specify the circumstances by which the arm is swung and the nose is hit.”

Louis-Jérôme’s eyes widened and darted towards M. Philippe. His son met his gaze squarely, and the leader of the country threw his head back and barked a sharp, harsh laugh. 

“So that’s where all your books are going,” he drawled, shaking his head.

“Monsieur,” Marius stood up, walking in between father and son to catch Louis-Jérôme’s gaze. “Please listen to me. There is change in this country coming and I want, more than anything, for you to work with us to usher it in.”

The laugh sounded again, piercing as it resounded around the enclosed room. “You’re asking a great deal, do you even realise?” he said, his lips twisting. “You’re asking for me to destroy with my own hands what my father and his contemporaries have given their blood and lives to build.”

M. Philippe made to speak, but Marius held up a hand, sending a pleading glance in his direction.

He took a breath. “There is a woman, strong and passionate and kind. She was sold off by her parents to a terrible husband when she was fourteen. He beats her, Monsieur.” Looking down at his hands, he clenched them tightly. “He did not want children from her, so he beats her. She had to endure it for over ten years before she found a way to escape, and when she did… she had to live on the streets, constantly hiding from the police.”

Louis-Jérôme snorted, jerking his head away. “Her husband is surely another criminal,” he drawled.

“No, Monsieur,” he said. “Her husband is a wealthy man. One of the wealthiest in the region of Lorraine, in fact.”

“One of Tholomyés’s friends, no doubt.”

“They do not know each other, and have never spoken.”

“What don’t you get to your point, boy?” Louis-Jérôme said, narrowing his eyes.

Marius sighed, finally allowing himself to drag his hand through his hair. 

“Those laws- _these_ laws we have right now, were made for survival,” he said quietly. “It was made for an era when all knew war and few knew what peace is. But it has been forty years, Monsieur, and through your father’s efforts and your own, we have known peace.

“In this peace, those laws made for an era of wars have become unjust and terrible. These laws terrorise and victimise the very citizens they are meant to keep safe. That is not the role of the law.”

“So tell me what the role of the law is then,” Louis-Jérôme challenged. “You seem very eager to say it.”

Before Marius could even open his mouth, M. Philippe stepped forward. He rested a hand on Marius’s shoulder before standing straighter, meeting his father’s eyes.

“It is to protect the citizens, father,” he said quietly. “It is to ensure that the rights they have – the right of every human being – is kept safe.” 

“Rights,” Louis-Jérôme said. His voice sounded dull. 

“Yes, father,” M. Philippe nodded. “The rights to be heard, to be safe, and to be judged fairly.” He hesitated. “The right to be free.”

There was a long moment of silence as Marius held his breath. Then Louis-Jérôme laughed again, leaning against his desk, his eyes fixed upon his son.

“If I agree to this law,” he said quietly, “you will leave, won’t you?”

M. Philippe closed his eyes. “Yes, father,” he said.

“Then why even ask when you know that I will not allow that law to pass just for that reason?”

“Because,” M. Philippe swallowed. His blue eyes focused on his father again. “Because, father, you are not so selfish or terrible a man to deny a country its rights for the sake of trapping your son.”

“Have I not been a terrible and selfish man?” Louis-Jérôme hiked up an eyebrow. He swept his arm around. “Have I not become the villain of this story of freedom that both of you have been making?”

“There is no villain in this story, Monsieur,” Marius cut in, unable to stop himself. “We… the changes we have made have only been possible because you have allowed them. If there is a villain…”

He looked down at the ground, hands clenching into fists by his side. “It is the laws themselves. The laws and the society they have built are what twisted Tholomyés, Thénardier, and their ilk into the men they are. And that _has_ to change.”

“Can people really change that easily?” Louis-Jérôme asked. There was, Marius noticed with his breath catching in his throat, a note of wonderment in his voice.

“Each person can change the very moment they decide to do so,” M. Philippe said. He reached forward slowly, each motion telegraphed, before he rested his hand on his father’s shoulder.

Louis-Jérôme flinched, and M. Philippe dropped his hand.

“Only those who refuse to change are the ones beyond help,” he continued.

Turning, Louis-Jérôme headed towards the window. He pulled open the curtains, staring out towards the people standing outside the gates.

“I will always be the villain in their minds,” he said bitterly. “They are nothing but beasts in the end, and beasts only see predator and prey. A predator fallen into powerlessness will only be someone who will be destroyed, his throat ripped out and corpse left for the crows to peck at.”

Marius bit back a sigh. “I will not say that you have not done wrong, Monsieur,” he said, keeping his voice steady. “But a man once told me that forgiveness is never deserved, and one can only hope to earn it and repay the debt with their own actions afterwards.”

Louis-Jérôme turned back around.

“I know, too, a man who had done a great deal of wrong,” Marius continued, meeting that dark gaze squarely. “He was forgiven by those around them, even by the man he has wronged the most. Years later, he has done so much that he has earned that forgiveness twice over, but he is still trying to repent, day by day.”

M. Philippe took another slow, hesitant step towards his father. “It will not be an easy road, father. But… I will be by your side. Even if I leave here, I will still be your son.”

He quirked a lopsided smile when Louis-Jérôme’s wide, dark eyes darted towards him. The older man opened his mouth, then closed it, shaking his head.

“The road of a thousand miles begins with a single step,” he said wryly. “Do you still remember that saying, Philippe? Or have you given the book with it away to Pontmercy here as well?”

“I don’t need that book to remember those words,” M. Philippe said quietly. “Or this either: ‘The road to hell is paved with good intentions.’”

Louis-Jérôme closed his eyes. He let out a long, low breath.

“So it is,” he murmured. Then, his gaze shifted, and Marius held his breath and the gaze both, trying to not clench his hands.

“Draft the laws,” Louis-Jérôme said. His lips curved up into a dark, bitter smile. “I’ll sign it.”

Marius nearly gaped, but Louis-Jérôme wasn’t finished yet.

He turned towards M. Philippe. “Go. Make a new world. Make me into a villain if you need to. I don’t need forgiveness from those beasts” He closed his eyes.

“There has not been war for long years. But it is all I see, even now.” He huffed a laugh, low and harsh. “Maybe you, who have never seen war, will be able to build a better world. One without war hovering at every shadow.”

M. Philippe bit his lip. Taking another step towards his father, he tried to place his hand on his shoulder again. This time, Louis-Jérôme did not flinch.

“ _We’ll_ make a new world together, father,” he insisted. His shoulders twitched as if in an aborted shrug. “I don’t know war, after all. I won’t know how to keep it away.”

“What makes you think that I won’t instead invite it to our doorstep again?” Louis-Jérôme asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Because that’s not what you want,” M. Philippe said. “Because you’re not so terrible or selfish a man to bring about what you hate and fear most just to prove yourself right.”

Hesitantly, Louis-Jérôme’s hand raised, resting on M. Philippe’s. He squeezed gently before pushing it away, walking back behind his desk and sitting down.

“Go,” he said again. “Before I change my mind.”

Marius ducked his head and gave a deep bow. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw M. Philippe do the same.

Their footsteps matched each other’s as they walked out of the room. When the door closed behind them, Marius looked at the other man. M. Philippe looked ragged, all energy drained out of him, and Marius took a leaf out of Papa’s book at that moment.

He took a step forward and wrapped his arms around M. Philippe.

“Announce it to your people,” he whispered into his ear. “Tell them of what you have managed to accomplish.”

Before M. Philippe could shake his head, Marius placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing tight.

“I am no leader or representative, Monsieur,” he said, quirking up a small smile. “ _You_ are, and it’s long past time for you to break free of your shackles and take your place at the forefront of the country.”

“Will they even accept me?” M. Philippe asked, his voice thick and muffled against Marius’s shoulder. “I… Surely they have seen me as a symbol of the laws that have enslaved them for so long.”

“They will,” Marius said, entirely sure. “You came first to them as a prisoner like them. Now you will go as a victor who has broken some of their shackles even as you broke your own.”

He pulled back a little more. Looking deep into M. Philippe’s blue eyes, he cupped a cheek with his hand.

“Go,” he said.

Taking a deep breath, M. Philippe nodded. He pulled away from Marius, turning to walk down the hallway towards the main entrance of the house. But before he took a single step, he went towards the door of Louis-Jérôme’s study, and pushed open the door slightly.

“Father.” His voice was filled with dozens of emotions that Marius could not identify, much less name or understand. “I’m going now.”

Louis-Jérôme did not reply. M. Philippe closed his eyes before he pulled the door shut again.

Then he straightened and began to walk again.

Marius looked at his tense shoulders for a moment before he strode forward, catching up with him until their footsteps were, once more, equal. They reached the doorway of the castle together, and their hands wrapped around each other’s on the doorknob.

They pushed the door open, and stepped out together to face their people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so the revolution begins. (About time.)
> 
> PS: Replies to comments will come later or even tomorrow. I love you all, but this week has basically been ridiculously busy. See, there's a reason why I usually don't post until I have most of a fic done - I haven't been able to write anything for two weeks.


	6. Six, 2141

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The bastard marries the ex-slave’s daughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  **Book I Chapter 6: Six, 2141**   
> 
> 
> **Warnings:** Sap and discussion of trauma.

“I still don’t know why I’m doing this,” Javert complained as he stepped into the house on Rue Plumet. He had just finished his shift at the Palais, and Valjean came to pick him up, like he had done so for the past couple of years since Javert returned to work.

He kicked off his shoes, scowling.

Pausing in the middle of hanging up his coat, Valjean shot a smile at him over his shoulder. “You know why,” he said, and the gentleness of his voice just made the tease in it even louder.

Javert huffed. He used the excuse of shrugging out of his own leather coat to distract himself so he wouldn’t tell Valjean that he wouldn’t have to do this if Valjean had done it. That Valjean could still do it.

As they stepped in the living room proper, Javert’s eyes darted towards the spot right above the shoe rack. The hook was already gone – it was removed two years ago, along with the collar. Yet, somehow, he still found himself expecting it to be there, a glimmer of silver and black out of the corner of his eyes. Like a phantom limb.

His leg ached. It had healed a long time ago.

He shook his head, shoving the thoughts out of his mind before he could worry Valjean with his maudlin thoughts.

“How do you know how to dance, anyhow?” he asked.

Valjean’s eyes were sharp on him, and remained so even as he smiled. “There was a widow, back at Montreuil,” he said, his lips slightly quirked upwards. “Madame Allard, do you remember?”

Javert had not heard the name in years, but it was one he remembered, alright. “The woman with the worst luck with burglar alarms in the whole of France?”

“What?” Valjean blinked.

“I thought you would’ve heard about it,” he said, leaning a hip against the dining room table as Valjean went to get water. “The alarms in her estate always tripped, no matter how many times she replaced them. Every time they did, the police would have to go to check things out, just in case.” He paused.

“Well, I had to, anyway.” He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck.

“Because she asked for you specifically to come?” Valjean said, and there was a strange wry amusement in his tone that made Javert’s eyes dart towards him immediately. Valjean was standing next to the refrigerator, his hands paused in the middle of pouring water into his mouth.

“If she told you about that, you would’ve known about this,” he pointed out.

Valjean laughed. “No, it was just a guess,” he said. His lips twitched upwards. “I’m also guessing – and I’m pretty sure about this – that she didn’t actually have such terrible luck with alarms.”

 _What do you mean_ , Javert opened his mouth to ask. Then he shut it immediately.

“Wait,” he said, eyes narrowing. “Did she teach you to dance as an excuse to…” he flapped his hand in Valjean’s direction. “Hit on you?”

“Mmhmm,” Valjean confirmed, nodding. His smile widened even further. “But, unlike you, _I_ actually figured it out.”

“That’s why she kept insisting that I keep the coat on while inside, isn’t it,” he said flatly.

“Most likely.”

Javert huffed, rolling his eyes. But he couldn’t stay exasperated – much less angry – at this woman whose face he didn’t even remember; not when Valjean’s eyes were so bright on his, and there was such easy joy on his face, the lines of his eyes shallower than they used to be despite the years that had passed.

He took the three steps needed to close the distance between them. His hand wrapped around Valjean’s torso, and he leaned in and caught the first mirthful breath with his lips. Valjean made a tiny sound, almost like a protest except that his hand clenched over Javert’s shirt, pulling him even closer as he opened his mouth.

Valjean’s mouth was cold and a little sweet from the water, but his breath was warm. He was still laughing, muffled sounds between their lips, and his chest pressed tightly enough against Javert’s that he could feel their hearts beating, arrhythmic but somehow matching. Javert’s chest felt almost too full to breathe.

When they broke apart, he rested his forehead against Valjean’s, holding him close and inhaling his exhales.

“I’ll never get tired of this,” he said.

Another huff of laughter, and Valjean nuzzled his cheek, their coarse beards half-staticky as they rubbed together.

“Come on,” he murmured. His hands caught hold of Javert’s, shifting the arm around his chest a little further downwards, and twined the fingers around his and held both of their arms a little distance away from them.

“Hold out your arms.”

Javert took a step backwards. His lips crooked into a smile. “Okay,” he said. “Teach me.”

“I’m not very good at it,” Valjean said, and his smile was just as wry and sheepish. “I only learned it once, and it was how to lead. Honestly, right now I’m trying to figure out how to move backwards even when I’m teaching you how to move forward.”

“Huh,” Javert blinked. “Why can’t you lead and teach me how you follow”

Valjean gave him an exasperated glance. “Because you’ll be dancing with Azelma, and you’ll have to lead.”

“She’s probably better at this than I am,” Javert said, just as exasperated. She had Frey and M. Philippe to teach her, after all, and both of them were likely to be far better about this archaic custom than two barely-educated old men. Hell, Frey probably could give him some kind of lecture on the history of the waltz.

“It’s a better idea for her to lead than for me,” he continued, warming up to the thought. “There’s a less chance of us tripping everywhere that way. The only reason why I’d be leading is that it’s what I’m supposed to do, and when has that ever applied to us?”

Valjean was staring at him. Javert held the gaze, biting on the inside of his cheek so he didn’t immediately back out of the idea at the very first sign of disapproval. It was… something he was still working on.

“Okay,” Valjean said finally, and Javert ground his teeth against his skin instead of letting out that sigh of relief. “Okay, we can try that. Tomorrow you can call her to see if she’s okay with the idea?”

“Yeah,” he said.

“It can be a symbolic kind of gesture,” Valjean continued, sounding thoughtful. “If you, as the father of the bride, allow her to lead, then… it can be a starting point to fight for the equal rights of women.”

Now it was Javert’s turn to stare. He opened his mouth and closed it several times. Not because he had nothing to say, but he had _too many_.

“Okay.” He let out a breath through gritted teeth. “For one thing, I’m not her father,” he wasn’t nearly good enough to take that position. “For another thing, _why_ does it have to be symbolic? It’s a _wedding_.”

Valjean’s eyes were bright with what Javert was absolutely certain was amusement at his expense. “You’re giving her away, and you’re even practicing this because she wants her second dance to be with you.” His lips twitched upwards a little further. “I’d say that you’re just as much Azelma’s father as I’m Cosette’s.”

“No,” Javert blurted out. “That’s… you raised Cosette for _years_. It’s not the same thing.”

“It’s not the years that matter,” Valjean said. He squeezed Javert’s hand gently, bringing it closer to press against his cheek. “It’s Azelma’s choice. If that’s what she sees you to be… are you going to deny her?”

Javert fell silent. He closed his eyes, falling forward slightly. Valjean caught him, a huff of air escaping him.

“You’re playing dirty,” Javert said, because Valjean knew perfectly well that he couldn’t deny Azelma anything. It was the reason why they were even doing this in the first place.

“I’m not,” Valjean protested, but his shoulders were shaking even as he wrapped his arm around Javert’s, holding him close.

“You make for a good father, you know,” he murmured against Javert’s cheek. “No matter what you think about yourself.”

Pulling back, Javert gave him a wry smile. He placed a finger on Valjean’s lips. “You’re not going to convince me tonight,” he said, because that was true. He knew his own mind well enough by now, and he would really rather not spend the entire night arguing in circles with both Valjean and himself.

“Tell me why this dance needs to be symbolic instead?”

Valjean pressed his hand to his own cheek, kissing his palm lightly. “Because it’s Mathieu,” he stated. “It’s Azelma too, but… mostly it is due to Marius, and his current position. Not to mention that Marius is his best man, and Cosette Azelma’s matron of honour.”

His smile was wry. “It’s a wedding of the leaders of the revolution, Javert. Everything will be interpreted symbolically, especially now that change is finally taking traction.”

Javert bit back another sigh, nodding. He knew that well enough. The success of the protest last year, and M. Philippe managing to win emancipation from his father with Marius’s help, meant that Louis-Jérôme was losing the tight grip he had on the country. Javert could hear it in the voices on the streets: less and less people are calling him by his ‘rightful’ title of Our Second Napoleon, instead using his name or even ‘that damned bastard’.

It was taking all of their efforts to keep the people calm enough to not start uprisings and revolutions. The police had strict orders to not ever turn a protest violent – it was common now for the police to go in unarmed. Furthermore, Marius had even convinced – somehow – the populace of Paris that the police were on their side, but their hands were tied in terms of joining them. (Marius said that it had a lot to do Javert himself, but he doubted that.) 

“There cannot be a war,” he said, echoing Frey’s words.

He hated to think the man to be right, but he was: a war, or even another barricade, would only convince Louis-Jérôme that he was right, and all of the changes they had so far wrought would all fall into pieces. The National Guard was still loyal to him, after all, and Javert knew that there was no way for two men – or maybe three, because M. Gisquet was starting to take an active part in the coming revolution instead of letting his unspoken permission speak for itself – to control the entirety of a police force. Any act of violence would serve as a spark to the powder keg that they were all sitting on.

Maybe a violent revolution would not be such a bad thing. There were fringe groups already forming that were calling for that with all of their might. But Frey insisted that change must come without any such thing, because violence would only beget violence. He even formed a group out of his former history students to gather information from the past to convince people that change that came by force would only lead to more turmoil.

All of them had had enough of _that_ already.

“So everything has become a symbol when it comes to us,” Valjean finished for him. He sighed, rubbing a hand over his head.

“I never thought that I’d become a public figure,” he said, a thread of mournfulness in his tone.

Javert caught his hand, kissing the back of it.

“You make for a good public figure,” he said. 

The words were utterly inadequate – they did not even begin to encompass just _how_ strongly people on the streets looked towards Valjean when it came to their actions, especially with the recent, by which he meant from the past _year,_ news articles about people getting permanent tattoos of ‘What Would Valjean Do’ on their skins – but he hoped they served anyway.

Valjean sighed. “I try,” he said. “But there are so many. In Paris, there are already millions, and I still can’t reach out to all of them at once.”

“No one expects you to,” Javert told him. If anyone would, they were simply be asking for a good punch in the face. “You do your best, and that’s enough.”

He wrapped his arms around Valjean’s shoulders as the other man sighed, sagging against him. “I wish it was enough for them all,” he said, words muffled by the cloth of Javert’s shirt. But they were familiar enough for Javert to not have to hear them to know what they were. “I could be, I _should_ be doing so much more. Even here, when I’m with you, I… I should be…” he fell silent, and shook his head.

 _You don’t need to give the whole of yourself to be a good man_ , he wanted to say. _You don’t have to keep earning that title, over and over again._

But he knew that it wouldn’t work; he knew that Valjean wouldn’t believe him. So he cupped Valjean’s face instead, tipping his head up so they were looking at each other. 

“Teach me how to dance?” he asked. “So I won’t screw up Azelma’s wedding?”

Valjean looked at him. After a moment, he made a sound, too watery to be a laugh and too light to be a sob; something in-between. “I… Okay.”

He buried his face in Javert’s shoulder. Javert held him, and waited.

“Okay,” he said again. When he lifted his head back up, he was smiling, and it wasn’t false. Javert returned it, tangling his fingers in Valjean’s and wrapping an arm around his waist.

“Like this, right?”

“No,” Valjean shifted Javert’s hand up to his shoulder. “Here, if I’m the one leading.” He wrapped his arm around Javert’s waist instead. “Like this.”

His lips quirked up. “It’s going to look a little ridiculous if Azelma’s the one with her arm around your waist.”

Javert raised an eyebrow. “Are you saying that I’m too big for her to hold this way?” He shoved as much false indignation into his voice as he could.

A laugh escaped Valjean, so sudden and unexpected that both of them froze, for just a moment. Then he shook his head.

“Just that she’s _much_ smaller than I am,” he said, lips twitching.

“Well,” Javert drawled. “It’ll be an even bigger problem if I don’t know how to dance at all. So teach me already.”

“Yes, yes.” Valjean shook his head, his bright eyes belying the disapproving frown. “So impatient.”

 _Well, I’m plenty patient enough during stakeouts_ — he bit back the words at the last moment. He wasn’t going to remind Valjean about how dangerous things were on the streets nowadays. (No matter what Valjean insisted, it was not more dangerous for Javert – just because he was both the symbol of the revolution and the police force, known to put down any uprisings in the past years, didn’t mean that he was more likely to be attacked.)

Instead, he said, “I don’t want to be stuck here in the kitchen forever.”

The world had no place here. Not between them. Not right now.

Valjean flashed him another smile. “It’s a box step,” he said. “Just follow me.”

That was something Javert knew, so he did. And though he should pay attention, he knew he was placing a great deal of faith in his body to remember the steps, because his mind was otherwise preoccupied.

He couldn’t help but focus on the gradual fading of tension from Valjean’s frame, or the star-bright joy and contentment in his eyes, or the warmth of his breath and gentle shaking of his shoulders whenever he laughed at Javert’s often-deliberate clumsiness.

The important things.

***

Pushing the door to Mathieu’s room open – they shared the apartment in the rue de Babylone since last year – Philippe didn’t bother announcing himself. He perched himself on the corner of Mathieu’s table, swinging his legs to and fro in a senseless rhythm, and tried to not smile when his cousin’s eyebrow started twitching with every rock of the table. 

“I came here because I have to say this again.” He took a breath for impact: “ _I told you so._ ”

Mathieu lifted his head up from where he was staring almost crossed-eye at the paper in front of him. “Philippe,” he said, and there was a wealth of unsaid warnings in that single word. Philippe ignored all of them.

“You were living with her for a while and you didn’t even tell me,” he said, shoving as much mock indignation into his voice as he could. “You _kept a secret from me_ and I found out anyway!”

“I keep plenty of secrets from you,” Mathieu said. When the table shook at Philippe’s kick, his eyebrow twitched again.

“True enough,” Philippe nodded. “But not about a person.”

He jumped off the table, walking behind Mathieu’s chair. Placing his hands on the back, he leaned over until he was staring into his cousin’s eyes upside down.

“When I found out, I already _knew_ you liked her. You practically adopted her little brothers as your own – I’m not jealous that you have more brothers, by the way, because I’m good at sharing. _You_ , however, have never been good at sharing anything, especially not your space.”

Mathieu’s hand smacked right into his face, but Philippe refused to be deterred. “Then you started researching historical arguments about the death penalty. I could see _right_ through you, Mathieu. Your explanations that getting rid of that is the same as getting rid of slavery is not going to work with _me_. I know that it’s because of her.”

Though that particular movement was going very slowly, simply because there were plenty in the country, especially in the upper echelons of the society, who still believed that there were people who were little better than beasts and therefore deserved to be put down. Plus all of those arguments about how the death penalty acted as a deterrent, no matter how many studies Mathieu had unearthed on how people simply didn’t act that way.

“Shut up,” Mathieu snapped at him. It was a half-hearted thing, and his cheeks were flushed.

Philippe laughed. “You can’t silence me like this,” he crowed. “In fact, you shouldn’t even be trying. What will our people do if they know that the great leader of the revolution is now acting like an oppressive authority?”

“What authority,” Mathieu rolled his eyes. “You’re essentially my boss.”

“Nope,” Philippe kicked the chair again. “The leadership positions are egalitarian. But since I’m the most junior member between you, Marius, Cosette, and myself, you _are_ an authority.”

“What,” Mathieu said. He stared at Philippe, his hand falling back onto the table. “That’s ridiculous. You started the same time as I did. We came to the conclusion about the need for change and revolution _together_.”

He smacked his finger to the side of Philippe’s head. “Have you gone senile?”

“I haven’t,” Philippe said. He leaned back, sitting down on the table. “But the people trust you more because you’ve been here since the beginning, ‘anonymous’ or not.”

“The people listen to you more,” Mathieu argued.

“That’s because you refuse to say anything to the press yourself.” Now it was his turn to roll his eyes. “You can’t compare how much people listen to either of us when you don’t say anything they can follow.”

Then he leaned back, considering Mathieu for a moment before he smacked him across the head. “Stop distracting me with shop talk,” he huffed. “I was talking about Azelma. Your girlfriend. Your fiancée. Your future wife.”

“Yay epithets,” Mathieu said, in that tone of infinite patience that meant that he was very close to throwing something heavy at Philippe’s face. “Congratulations on your vocabulary.”

Philippe snorted. He crossed his arms, cocking an eyebrow. “Do you need my vocabulary to help you write your vows?”

Mathieu blinked, and Philippe stifled down a smile. It was quite frankly hilarious how Mathieu was always taken aback whenever Philippe changed the subject so quickly, no matter how many times it happened.

“No,” he sighed finally, dragging a hand through his hair. The dirty-blond strands were now a complete mess, falling all over his face. He shook his head hard.

“I need to do this myself. It needs to be perfect.”

Philippe sighed. He leaned forward, dropping his chin onto his open palm. “She’s going to be happy with anything you write, you know,” he murmured. “You can write that you vow to study more about the history of revolutions through the centuries into your vows and she’ll still love you and agree to marry you.”

“I’m already studying about the history of revolutions,” Mathieu protested, because he was really stupid sometimes.

“That’s exactly my point,” Philippe said, kicking his cousin’s chair again for emphasis. “She’s not going to care about the words that are going in there. You’re just using this as an excuse.”

Mathieu closed his eyes. “Damn you,” he said, because Philippe could see through him better than anyone – excepting perhaps Azelma – could. “It’s just… The thing is…” He fell silent. Philippe waited.

“I still don’t know if I’m being fair with this.”

“What.” Of all the possible things he thought Mathieu could be worried about – whether the ceremony would go fine, whether Azelma really loved him – this was the _last_ thing he would have thought to be the matter.

“Bringing her into the public eye, I mean,” Mathieu said, eyes still closed though he definitely could feel Philippe’s accusing stare. “Her, and Hughes and Bressole. You know how much we’re scrutinised. I… Is it a good idea?”

Philippe bit back a sigh. He kicked the chair again. “Don’t be fucking stupid,” he snapped out.

He so rarely swore that Mathieu’s eyes immediately flew open. He stared. “What—”

Taking a deep breath, Philippe leaned forward, catching and holding his cousin’s gaze. “I know that, given what’s been happening, you’re worried that they’ll be used against you somehow.” Either by Philippe’s own father if he ever changed his mind, or the growing number of people who were getting more and more restless and dissatisfied with the non-violent revolution that they were pushing for.

“But they’re all already in danger, and already in the public eye, and this marriage isn’t going to change anything,” he continued. “They were all present at Marius and Cosette’s wedding, and Azelma is M. Javert’s daughter.”

He brushed a strand of dark curls away from his face impatiently. “Anyway, you’re at the bottom of the list if anyone’s going to get shot.”

“What,” Mathieu said, staring.

Philippe sighed melodramatically. “Look, I’m at the top of the list,” he started, counting off his fingers. “Not only am I the one who keeps talking about change, I’m also the son of the guy who they see to be oppressing them.” Even though it wasn’t true, there was little that words could do to get rid of the human instinct to make someone into the villain of a story, and Philippe knew that his father filled that role. He bit his lip, shook his head, and continued.

“Then there’s Marius, who is the guy insisting most about non-violence in public.” He held up a hand to forestall the protest that was coming. “Then it’s be M. Javert, and then M. Jean.” Though Philippe really doubted that anyone who try to hurt M. Jean – he had the cleanest record out of all of them, and was already reaching the status of a martyr. Or, at least, that was what the news channels liked to paint him to be, despite M. Jean’s own efforts.

“You’re at the bottom of the list,” he finished. “Because you write the speeches. You work in the background. The rest of us are the spokesmen and the symbols.”

His lips quirked into a crooked smile. “She’s going to be fine as your wife. They’re all going to be fine.”

 _So will you_.

Mathieu opened his mouth. He closed it, and smacked a hand over his face. “That’s _not_ reassuring,” he complained. “Telling me that everyone is more likely to get shot because I _chose_ to work in the background is… It’s just… that’s even more unfair!” 

Well, it had been a while since Mathieu sounded like a kid. Philippe laughed, ruffling his hair. 

“I’m telling the truth,” he pointed out. Then, before Mathieu could protest further, he grinned. “And you’re sounding like Bressole now.”

“That’s not the point,” Mathieu growled. He tried to bat away Philippe’s hand, but Philippe flicked him on the forehead. “Ow!”

“The point is that you’re worried over nothing,” Philippe drawled. He kicked the chair again. “Now finish your vows and stop using it as an excuse to not be happy that you’re going to get married.”

Mathieu looked at him. He dragged a hand over his face. “You didn’t make me feel better,” he said dryly. “I’m just putting that out there.”

Philippe just smacked him across the back of his head again. “Write your vows,” he said.

When Mathieu bent over his desk again, grumbling under his breath, Philippe hid a smile. He watched his cousin for a few moments more, taking in the way his eyes shone even as he fretted over the vows he was writing over and over. His hair was a complete mess. He looked completely different from how he usually seemed in public – cool, composed, entirely held together.

It had been a very long time since he had seen Mathieu caring so deeply about someone other than Philippe himself. It was a good development, and one that was long overdue. Mathieu had been so preoccupied with the country that Philippe knew for certain that Azelma was the first person he had feltf any kind of romantic love for.

He would worry about it if he hadn’t seen how good Azelma was for him. How much they, in their own quiet ways, suited each other.

After a while, he left the room, going into his and picking up the pile of books there before returning to Mathieu’s. He picked the first in the pile and started reading through one of the stories in it – Victor Hugo’s _The Last Day of a Condemned Man_.

The whole idea was Mathieu’s, but Philippe had never been the kind of person to simply read and memorise speeches and give them without believing in the words he was saying.

By the time he heard Mathieu put down his pen, the sun had already set. Philippe looked up, and Mathieu gave him a wry smile.

“I’m done,” he said.

“Do you want me to read it?”

Mathieu shook his head. “You get to hear it tomorrow, like everyone else,” he said, his lips quirking up slightly. He looked at Philippe for a long, silent moment.

“Will I ever get to do this to you?”

Philippe blinked. He bookmarked the page he was at, dropping the book back into its pile. “Do what?” he asked.

“Make fun of you as you fret over your wedding,” Mathieu said.

Oh. Philippe looked down. He drew his knees up, pressing them against his chest before hugging them. “Probably not,” he said.

Mathieu turned around, straddling the chair before he dropped his head on top of his folded arms. “Why?” he asked.

“You’re not the only one worried about fairness and security,” Philippe said wryly. Then, before Mathieu could speak, he shook his head. “It’s different.”

He tipped his head back, staring at the ceiling. “Father always told me… I’m important. He never used the word, but I’m a prince in a country without royalty. And that’s…” he shrugged. “I don’t really _mind_ it, honestly, because I know that it’s the reason why people even listen to me. It’s not fair that they’ve been so indoctrinated to think that the ideas from someone high up in society mean more than from anyone else, but it’s something I can _use_ , and so…”

“Stop changing the subject,” Mathieu interrupted him. 

Philippe shot him a glare. When Mathieu stared back at him, completely unrepentant, he sighed again.

“But it means that there’s no one who is on of same social rank as I am,” he said, shrugging. “Even if this revolution succeeds… I am still one of the leaders. We are all leaders. Anyone else I meet will come from a lower position, and I… I don’t want anyone to be known to my people as being just my wife.” He paused, and shrugged again. “Or my partner. Lover. Whatever the word you want to use for it.”

“That’s something for them, whoever it is, to decide, isn’t it?” Mathieu arched an eyebrow.

“Maybe,” Philippe said. “But, you know, anyone I meet at this point will see me as either Petit-Aigle or a leader of the revolution, both of which means I’m higher up in rank.” He rubbed a hand over his eyes. “Besides, there’s also what you said. Anyone I end up with will be in danger because of me.”

“You’re not actually disputing my point,” Mathieu said. He stood up from his chair, walking over to sit on the bed beside Philippe. “Let that person decide.”

His lips twitched upwards. “Or you can stop using my arguments as your excuses and tell me the truth.”

Of course he couldn’t fool Mathieu. Philippe closed his eyes, dropping his head between his knees.

“I don’t think I can even…” he flapped a hand. “It’s just… there’s you, and there’s Marius and Cosette, and even M. Jean and M. Javert. That’s four people more than I’ve ever had to deal with and…”

He shrugged. “You don’t have to tell me it’s pathetic,” he said, voice muffled. “I already know.”

“Hey,” Mathieu said. He tapped Philippe’s cheek – what little he could reach of it. “Look at me.”

“No.”

“Oy.”

Philippe sighed, heavy and overdramatic. He lifted his head, and rubbed his eyes again. “What,” he said flatly.

“I’m sorry,” Mathieu said. His lips were curved upwards, but his eyes were dark and sorrowful. “I’m sorry I left you alone in that goddamned Castle for ten years.”

“It’s not your fault,” Philippe interrupted him. He gave his cousin a watery little smile. “I was the one who told you to go.”

“Well, I’m sorry anyway,” Mathieu said, and shifted a little closer on the bed. His arms wrapped around Philippe’s shoulders, pulling him close. Though Philippe knew he shouldn’t, he sighed, sagging into the embrace.

“Stop apologising for something you can’t help and which I agreed to,” he grumbled, poking Mathieu’s ribs with an elbow. “You’re being stupid.”

He sighed, pulling away and scrubbing his face with his sleeve. “Wait, no, _I’m_ being stupid.”

“Don’t fucking say that,” Mathieu said. The fierceness and sharpness in his voice was startling, and Philippe jerked, peering up above his arm.

“What?”

“It’s not stupid, okay?” Mathieu said, gripping Philippe by both arms. His eyes were blazing. “Don’t even _think_ that. It’s not stupid to be afraid of getting close to people when…” he shook his head.

“Yeah,” Philippe said. Mathieu didn’t have to say it – he knew. And he couldn’t put it into words either. Words made everything too real, and he didn’t have the time to dwell on his own… twistedness when there was a world’s full of twistedness to fix.

Mathieu leaned in. Their foreheads touched. Philippe wrapped his arms around his cousin, his brother and the one person who hadn’t left or betrayed or could betray him, and simply let himself listen to the soft breathing.

“I’m not leaving you,” Mathieu said softly. “I’m getting married, but I’m not going to leave you. You know that, yeah?”

Philippe nodded. “Not getting rid of you,” he murmured. He knew that, but somehow, he found a knot easing inside him at Mathieu’s words anyway.

They stayed there for a couple of minutes more. Philippe counted the breaths so he could fill his mind with something instead of allowing it to wander everywhere else like it usually did.

“Hey,” he said finally, his mind grasping onto an idea despite his best efforts. “Do you have to meet Azelma later?”

“Mm?” Matheiu’s eyes blinked open. He shook his head, a little motion that didn’t jar their positions leaning towards each other. “Nope.”

“Anyone else?”

“Nope.”

“Stay with me like this for a bit?”

Mathieu laughed – a soft little thing that ghosted over Philippe’s cheek. He turned his head and kissed his cheek. Then he nudged the books away, climbing into bed. He didn’t let go of Philippe.

“Not going anywhere,” he said.

Philippe knew that he might be holding too tightly; that he might be leaving bruises on the top of Mathieu’s arms from how hard his hands were clenched on them. But he couldn’t bring himself to let go.

“Okay,” he said, swallowing hard.

They stayed like that a long while.

***

“Ready?”

Azelma opened her eyes. The veil obscured her vision, so she lifted it up and gave Monsieur a shaky little smile. “As much as I can ever be, I guess,” she said.

Her heart was roaring in her ears; it was beating so fast. 

Monsieur leaned down and kissed her on her forehead. His beard tickled a little, and she let out a small, hiccupping giggle. “It’s going to be fine,” he said quietly. “He loves you. You know that, or I wouldn’t even have allowed this to happen.”

“I know.” She took a deep breath, because she did know. She took a deep breath, and let out another giggle. It was probably hysterical. “It’s just…”

She shook her head, ducking her head down and looking at her hands. Monsieur didn’t say a word, and simply waited. Distantly, she could hear the church pews starting to fill. Her fingers were starting to twist together.

“It’s just that… my parents, they…” she took another breath, and forced herself to continue. 

“They always told me and Éponine that we should find someone rich to marry if we’re going to be of any use. My father threw me out after…” she hesitated. “After what Jeannot Tholomyés did, because he said no one wants a whore.”

Monsieur’s arm wrapped around her, and she rested her cheek on his broad chest. “It’s just… it’s terrible of me, I know, but I wish that they could see this, you know?” Her father was dead. Her mother was still in prison. She laughed, a watery thing, and swallowed again so she wouldn’t start crying and ruin the makeup Clarisse had so painstakingly put on her.

“Not because I want them to be here, but just so I can rub it into their faces that I _am_ marrying a rich man.” Her hand clenched around Monsieur’s sleeve. “I only met him because they threw me out, so the reason why they even wanted me to marry one won’t ever… won’t…”

She sniffled.

“I wish Éponine could be here,” she murmured. The words were tumbling out of her mouth now. “She would’ve been so mad that I chose Cosette as my matron of honour, because she would’ve wanted to be that. And I wished Gavroche could be here too. He can be another flower boy. I just…”

“Shhh,” Monsieur said, sliding his hand through the veil. She could feel the calluses on his hands catch on the rough tulle, and that made her giggle for reasons she couldn’t even understand. “Look at me.”

Shifting, Azelma looked up. Monsieur’s eyes were soft and so, so affectionate that her breath caught in her chest, and she had to swallow again so she didn’t start crying.

“You want your family to be here,” he said, cupping her cheek. “That’s okay. That’s not terrible of you, you know.”

She shook her head. “It’s not that I think that all of you aren’t enough. It’s just that I…”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Monsieur said, putting a finger over her lips. “I’m not blaming you for wanting them here, or even wanting to shove it into your parents’ faces that you _are_ someone worthwhile, no matter what they said.” His lips quirked up into a small, crooked smile, so much more real than any smile she had ever seen either of her father or mother give anyone, much less her.

“I’m so proud of you,” he said. He leaned over, kissing her on the forehead.

“Not because of who you’re marrying,” he continued. “But because of who you are and how you’re still standing straight, here, despite all that you’ve gone through.”

Azelma’s eyes welled up. She blinked rapidly, giving another small giggle. Because Monsieur might say and keep saying that he was no good with words, but he always found just the right ones when she needed them.

She wrapped her arms around him, holding on tightly. She tried to make sure that she wouldn’t smear her makeup all over his formal jacket.

“Do you feel better now?” Monsieur asked, cupping her cheek.

“Mm,” she nodded. She leaned up, standing on her tiptoes – despite her heels, Monsieur was still too tall for her to reach without needing to do that – and kissed him on his cheek, lightly enough to not leave a mark.

“Thank you,” she said. She wanted to add _Dad_ to the end of that, but swallowed back the wish because the word was too heavy. Even now.

Monsieur held out his arm. “Shall we, then?”

Azelma nodded again. She slipped her arm into the crook of his elbow, feeling the warmth and solidity of his body beside her. She squeezed his arm lightly, and he flashed her a smile even as they started to walk.

Cosette, Clarisse, and her brothers met them at the door of the church. Her brothers – so tall now, both of them taller than her – gave her matching grins. They held baskets of flowers on their arms even though they were both far too old to be flower boys, especially Hughes, but they wanted to, and Azelma honestly couldn’t deny them this.

Monsieur lowered her veil, giving her another smile. Azelma took a deep breath. 

Hughes flung open the door.

She couldn’t see how Mathieu looked like when he first caught sight of her, but Monsieur was leaning in, his steps unwavering. He whispered, “Frey looks like a fish, just so you know.”

Stifling another giggle, she squeezed his arm. “You’ll have to call him Mathieu at some point, you know,” she said.

“Eventually,” Monsieur snorted. His other hand came to rest on top of hers as they walked down the aisle. Some of the pews were filled with reporters – unavoidable, given the revolution that was going on – but Azelma kept her eyes fixed forward.

When they reached the end of the aisle, she turned towards the man who was her father in heart and bond, if not in blood. Monsieur gave her a smile, and she stifled another giggle – honestly, she should stop being so hysterical – when she heard him whisper to Mathieu:

“If you don’t treat her right, no one will find your body.”

“He doesn’t mean it,” she murmured, _sotto voce_ , as Monsieur walked away. “Probably.”

Mathieu lifted her veil, and his wry smile faded away into something far brighter when he caught sight of her. The knot in Azelma’s chest loosened even further, and she clenched tightly to his hand as they turned to the priest.

She couldn’t hear much of what the priest said, because her heart was thundering again. When she could calm herself down again, Mathieu was clearing his throat, and she turned to face him.

They wrote their own vows. Unlike Cosette and Marius, neither of them was much for religion. 

“Azelma,” Mathieu began. He lifted her hand, and pressed a kiss to her gloved knuckles. She saw him take a deep breath, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment.

“Once I thought that this country was the only thing I could give my whole heart and soul to,” he continued. His eyes were so bright and piercing upon hers. “Once, I thought the only way I could live was in the midst of a hurricane, constantly buffeted by forces that I could not control. Once, I looked at those on the streets and around me and saw the way they looked at each other, and said to myself, _this is not for me_.”

He took a breath. Azelma swallowed, trying to stem the tears that threatened to well up.

“When I first met you, you took my breath away. Not by your beauty, though you are the most beautiful person I have ever met.” He squeezed her hand. “It was your strength, your steadiness. I stood beside you and I found myself in the eye of the hurricane. Even when you didn’t trust me, your every word made the winds slow down and the world calm. The yellow skies cleared away into blue, and I found that my heart and soul were not made just for this country alone.”

Taking a step forward, he cupped her cheek. Azelma squeezed his wrist.

“When I looked into the mirror,” he continued, his voice dipping lower. “I recognised the look in my eyes. And though I have read so much, I still have no words for what you mean to me. Except this: I fell for you since the first time I met you, and though I thought it was an abyss, I realised afterwards that I was wrong. You are the ground beneath my feet, the harbour amidst the storm, and…” his lips quirked into a wry, wry smile.

“The home for my restless heart and soul.”

She closed her eyes. Despite her best efforts, a tear fell. Mathieu’s thumb was infinitely gentle as he brushed it away. He stepped back, retrieving the ring from where it was in the box M. Philippe was holding, and slipped it on her finger.

“I don’t have words as beautiful as those you gave me,” she said when she could control her voice again. She opened her eyes, and gave Mathieu a small, watery smile. 

“You made me feel safe, Mathieu.” Her voice was clear, bouncing off of the alcoves of the church. “With you, I am not a few broken pieces scattered. With you, I am whole.”

There was nothing else she could say. She had thought and thought, and these were the only words she could give.

But they seemed enough: before the priest could say a word, Mathieu leaned forward, and caught her lips into a kiss. She yelped a little before her heart shoved her mind out of the way, and she was flinging her arms around Mathieu’s neck, clinging onto him and returning it.

“I pronounce the two of you married,” she could hear the priest saying dryly from a distance away. “I would say that you may now kiss the bride, but you’re doing it already anyway.”

Mathieu was laughing against her lips, his shoulders shaking beneath her arms. Azelma knew she was ruining her makeup by how much she was crying, but she couldn’t stop, couldn’t even pull away from her husband – her husband! – and clung tighter as he wrapped his arms around her waist. She pulled away, half-shouting and half-laughing, as he lifted her up, instinctively wrapping her legs around his waist before returning to kissing and kissing him again.

“My wife,” he was saying, as if he still couldn’t believe it. “My wife, my wife, _my wife_.” He peppered kisses onto her lips, her cheek, everywhere he could reach with every kiss.

Azelma couldn’t stop laughing, couldn’t stop crying. She wasn’t even sure why. Neither of them were prone to such public displays of affection, and yet here they were, making a spectacle of themselves.

“My husband,” she heard herself saying back. Her hands shifted from his shoulders to his face, cupping his cheeks as she smiled so widely that her own ached. “My husband, my husband, my husband.”

Someone was saying something. Azelma could hear them, and she was distantly aware that they weren’t entirely alone. But her mind was going through a litany of _mine, mine, mine_ , and she could scarcely care about anything, or anyone, else at this moment.

There was so little that was hers in this world. But that was fine. That didn’t matter. Not when she had Mathieu here, and he was looking at her like she was everything he had never known he had wanted through his entire life.

He kissed her again.

“OY!”

Mathieu stumbled. Azelma somehow managed to find her footing right before he let her go, dragged backwards by some unknown force. She shook her head, dabbing at her eyes as much as she could despite knowing that her makeup was entirely ruined.

When her eyes cleared, she blinked. Because M. Philippe had Mathieu in a headlock.

“Stop eating your wife’s makeup,” he was saying, and the sternness in his voice was utterly ruined by how much he was laughing. “Seriously, that’s gross, Mathieu.”

Azelma opened her mouth to stop him, but before she could, she found an arm wrapping around her shoulders. A broad chest met her back, and she looked up to see Monsieur mock-glaring at Mathieu.

“That’s just indecent,” Monsieur said. “Don’t make me regret letting her marry you.”

She couldn’t help it – she laughed. “That’s a little too late, Monsieur,” she said, shaking her head.

Monsieur gave her a wry smile. He kissed her forehead. “I wouldn’t have done it even if it wasn’t,” he murmured into her ear, mirth clear in his voice. “He makes you happy, doesn’t he?”

“Yes,” she said. Her eyes went back to her husband, who had somehow gotten out of M. Philippe’s headlock but was now behind pinned to the ground by him and both of Azelma’s brothers. 

“He does.”

“Alright,” Monsieur said. His smile widened, and turned brighter. “Pardon me, then.”

Then he bent down and swept her up into his arms. Azelma yelped, arms flailing, but Monsieur had her caught securely in a bridal carry.

“I’m stealing your bride for the first dance,” Monsieur said.

“You know,” Mathieu’s voice rang out. “When I said I’m in a hurricane, I do not mean my own _family_!”

“Do you seriously think that we’re not going to tease the hell out of the two of you for your lapse of control?” M. Philippe replied. Craning her neck, Azelma laughed again when she saw that the man was sitting right on top of her husband’s chest, and her brothers were sitting on top of his legs. “I mean, seriously.”

“Get off me!” Mathieu yelled, sounding severely aggravated. 

“We’re also rewarding you for your brilliant sense of occasion,” Hughes said, because he had clearly spent too much time with both Mathieu and Monsieur. “ _Mon grand frére._ ”

Monsieur let her down at the door. Azelma looked at to him, still helplessly laughing. His eyes were shining so brightly, and she knew hers were too.

“Are you still worried?” he asked.

Azelma turned to look at the church. There was a group of reporters talking rapidly into their ear-pieces, inching slowly towards where Mathieu was flailing beneath his three brothers. Clarisse had given up entirely on standing and was lying flat on the floor. M. Jean laughing so hard that he was bent half over, and Cosette was unsuccessfully hiding her own chuckles into her husband’s shoulder. Marius looked as if he was having a seizure as he tried to stand still for Cosette’s sake and kept failing horribly, his hands flapping around him. Even the priest was looking at the scene with his head propped into his hand, looking as if he wanted popcorn.

If Éponine and Gavroche were here, they would have joined Hughes, Bressole, and M. Philippe in teasing Mathieu. They would likely have wolf-whistled at the first kiss. If Azelma lidded her eyes a certain way… she could almost imagine the two of them here.

She could not imagine her parents. She did not want to. They didn’t belong here.

Turning back to Monsieur, she leaned up and kissed him on the cheek. A few more tears fell, but she did not blink them away.

“No,” she said. “I’m not, anymore.”

Taking a deep breath, she held out a hand. “Well, shall we dance, Monsieur?”

“Of course,” he said. When she took her hand, her arm slipped around his waist. She could barely reach half of it, but that didn’t matter because she was still laughing. Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw a few of the reporters turn their attentions towards the two of them.

Let them look, she thought as she led the man wh hado saved her and given her an opportunity for a family she had never known, out of the doors into the church grounds. 

They were likely ridiculous, given that she could barely reach over his head to spin him around, but let them look anyway. Let the world look. Let her mother look from prison if she wanted to.

She had her father, her brothers, and her husband. She had her friends. 

“You forgot to put this on him,” M. Philippe told her later on when her dance with Monsieur was finished. He shoved a ragged-looking Mathieu – his tuxedo smeared with dust and grass stains forward – even as he dropped a ring into her fingers. He was still grinning. 

Azelma laughed. Looking into Mathieu’s eyes, she brushed a few stalks off of his hair before she slipped the ring into his finger. Then she stepped into Mathieu’s arms just as the music finally came on.

She had everything she needed, right here.


	7. Seven, 2142 [Part One]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The world turns upside down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Book I Chapter 7: Seven, 2142 [Part One]**
> 
> **Warnings:** Explicit description of violence and panic attacks caused by post-traumatic stress disorder. This chapter is also long enough for me to cut it into two. Next chapter will be posted next Sunday.

“If there is a Republic, it should be one that we won through peace!” Marius was saying, standing on top of the podium. He waved a hand around himself, his wedding band glinting in the light. “If we form a barricade, if we fight through guns and violence instead of words and logic, then whatever we form would only be righteous through might.” 

The crowd – hundreds strong, and growing – were murmuring amongst themselves. Some of them were nodding, others shaking their heads. There were more of the latter than the former now. Javert could not blame them for their impatience, for it had been seven years since the court case where the law was judged to be unfair, and yet the dream of the Republic still seemed out of reach.

Marius took a deep breath. “We are not righteous because we are stronger,” he said, gripping the microphone in his hand tighter. “We are not righteous because we have strength in numbers, or weapons, or we could spill more blood. That is _not_ righteous.” He closed his eyes.

“There is no righteousness in causing death.”

This was the third rally in the same number of months that Marius had to hold in order to make sure that the people did not start a violent revolt. Even the lack of violent retaliation could only do so much. Hell, Javert had heard plenty of arguments – some of them from his own officers – that police support meant that they _should_ in fact overthrow the government. Louis-Jérôme only had the National Guard by his side now, and as time passed, even they were starting to waver from his authority.

More and more laws were being overturned. Crime rates plummeted as the police refused to arrest those who committed crimes out of desperation, instead turning them over to the growing number of shelters and schools that Cosette, Valjean, and Frey were building. 

But Louis-Jérôme was still in power.

“We only need one death!” Someone called from amidst the crowd. “The death of that damned bastard who calls himself Napoleon!”

Javert winced. _That_ was more than anyone had dared to say in the previous two rallies.

Marius’s eyes were searching the crowd, but he didn’t seem to be able to find the person – the man, most likely, given the voice – who spoke, so he faced them all again.

“If we win by might, we will not have a stable and safe world to live in,” Marius said. Though his voice was steady, it was loud enough to carry throughout the square. “All it will prove is that power can be won through death and blood and violence and guns.”

He closed his eyes.

“All we’ll prove is that we’re just as bad, or even worse, as M. Louis-Jérôme during the greatest depth of his fear, because is that not how he has held onto his power for so long?” His eyes snapped open, and they blazed as he stared at the gathered crowd, lingering on the reporters with their camera-glasses.

“We were afraid to raise a hand. Now we are _not_ , and we will not be again. We will never be again!”

Standing three steps behind Marius in his usual spot with his usual silence, Frey’s eyes widened. Javert knew, then, that Marius had completely gone off-script.

“There’s nothing I will not do, nothing any of us,” he waved a hand around the podium, indicating himself and Frey and the other leaders of the revolution who were not present, “would not do to ensure that there is a world that is safe for all of you. A world where you will not have to be afraid of death and guns, creeping around the corners whenever you walk down the streets. A world where you will not be threatened simply because of who you were born to be.”

“Rich words from a rich man,” the voice sneered.

Javert’s eyes narrowed. His instincts were screaming, and he looked around the crowd to search for the man. During his scan, he caught Cosette’s gaze from where she was standing below the podium. There was worry etched in her furrowed brow. Then she seemed to catch something out of the corner of her eye. Her lips parted, and she whirled around.

“GET DOWN!”

* 

Hands on his shoulders. Marius went immediately to his knees, following orders even before his mind realised that it was Azelma who screamed them. His shoulder slammed hard into the podium, pain sparking against it, near enough to be dizzying.

Then Mathieu dropped down next to him- no, not dropped. He _fell_ , pushed by the same force. Marius opened his mouth, wanting to ask him what the hell was going on—

Plaster fell on him. Marius looked up. He had just enough time to see the bullet embedded in the spot where his head would have been if he hadn’t moved in time.

The podium rocked. Wood cracked, the sound as loud as gunshots. No, that was not the sound of cracking wood. That was.

That was a gunshot. Gunshots. The podium _shattered_ , wood raining down on his head.

 _No_.

*

 _Shit_.

The square was suddenly filled with moving bodies. People were starting to run, some of them screaming. It had been years since many of them had heard the sound of guns, but there were some instincts that could never be rid of.

“Calm down! People, calm down!”

Cosette’s voice. Javert didn’t pay attention to it, instead dodging the panicking crowd. He needed to get the front – not just to Marius and Cosette and Frey, but so he could get a good vantage point.

“Monsieur! Monsieur! Here!” Azelma’s voice. Instinctively, Javert turned, and the sight he saw cut off his breathing entirely.

There was a gun pointed in Azelma’s face. Javert stared at it, and it took him a moment more before he realised that the hand holding the gun was attached to an arm, then a body that was flat on the ground. A couple of seconds, then more sank in: Azelma’s hand was around that person’s wrist, and she was pushing the gun away from her face.

Her foot was resting on a chest.

“People of Paris!” Now it was Valjean’s voice. When had the man gotten up to the makeshift stage? Later. He pushed through the slowing crowd towards his daughter, gritting his teeth to make sure that he wasn’t shoving anyone to the side.

Calm. He needed to be calm.

“Please calm down. We have caught the gunman,” Valjean continued. “We have caught him. You are safe. _You are safe_.”

When he finally reached Azelma, she was pale as a sheet. There was sweat beading on her forehead, dripping down to her lashes, and she was bent half-over.

“Monsieur,” she said quietly. “Please pick up the cartridge for me.”

Cartridge? Javert blinked. He looked down. Oh.

Right there, at Azelma’s foot, was a cartridge of bullets. She had managed to get it out of the gun.

“I still have a bullet left,” the gunman yelled suddenly. “I can shoot whenever I like!”

Javert took a step forward, but Azelma shot him a glance out of the corner of her eyes that froze him entirely. He took a deep breath, and held up both hands instead. Around him, he could practically feel as the people closest to them begin to back away. He heard the sound of a man yelling as he tripped over his own foot, and the dull thud of his body hitting the ground.

“Please, will you help each other up? Will you stand side by side?” Valjean asked.

Azelma’s eyes were fixed on the gunman. “You can,” she said to him, in a voice so soft that Javert had to lean in to hear. “But I don’t think you want to.”

“You don’t know what I want,” the gunman snarled.

“I think that you’re trying for a better world like the rest of us,” she said. “I think you’re doing this because you think it’s a better way. But… look around you.” She took a deep breath.

“Please, Monsieur.”

Javert saw the gunman’s eyes widen, and began to dart side by side. Though he kept his eyes on that man because that was his daughter right in front of his damned gun, pointed away from her or not, he could guess what it was he saw:

People frozen in terror. People staring at him, horribly afraid. People holding onto each other, near tears, shaking and shaking.

It was a sight Javert knew very well.

“There’s nothing that will ever make up for the sight of people afraid of you,” Azelma told the man. Her smile was infinitely gentle. “If you’re a good man, if you’re trying to do the best for them, there’s nothing that will ever get rid of what you’re seeing right now, Monsieur.”

The silence around them was thick enough to choke. Even Valjean was silent. Distantly, Javert could hear the sounds of quiet weeping. 

“Please, Monsieur,” Azelma repeated. “Please. Let it go.”

Slowly, one by one, inch by inch, the man’s fingers began to unclench around the handle of the gun. 

He dropped it. Azelma caught it. Javert somehow found the ability to move again, and he lurched forward, taking the thing from Azelma’s hand. Instinctively, he held his hands out until they could be seen by the crowd around them, and he slipped the bullet out of the barrel, pocketing it along with the cartridge. For safety’s sake, he dismantled the gun as well.

The sigh of relief that spread through the crowd was nearly strong enough to be a breeze. Javert nodded, and didn’t take his eyes from his daughter or the man who just tried to shoot at Marius.

“Come on,” he said, reaching down to the grip the man’s arm. “Let’s get you up to the people who you just terrified.”

He didn’t allow the man to protest – once Azelma lifted her foot, he pulled him to his feet, then began to drag him towards the makeshift stage. 

*

All he could smell was gunpowder and blood. The world was red. There were black shadows. They were moving.

 _Red, the blood of angry men…_

“Marius! Marius, _please_!”

_Black, the dark of ages past…_

He should not breathe. Hold it in. He should not breathe. Don’t let it give you away.

*

“He’s out of commission.” Mathieu tried to keep his voice calm. Cosette was beside her husband, cupping his face in her small hands, trying to get him to look at her. But Marius’s eyes were dull, glazed over, and he wasn’t moving.

Cosette looked at him. There were tears in her eyes, and she sniffled quietly before she wiped them away. Her hands fell down to her swollen belly before she wrapped her arms around herself, squeezing her eyes shut.

“You need to get up there,” Mathieu said quietly, cursing himself more than ever for his choice of role in this revolution. “M. Jean can’t hold the crowd by himself forever.”

“I know,” Cosette said, her voice smaller than he had ever heard it. She opened her eyes and wiped them again. Then she reached forward, cupping Marius’s cheeks and kissing him on the forehead.

“Take care of him for me?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Mathieu nodded. “You don’t have to worry about him right now.”

He watched as Cosette took a breath. Then she straightened, and the steel returned to her spine. She stood up without help, walking beside her father just in time for M. Javert to drag the gunman up to the stage.

They’d deal with the crowd. Mathieu would have to wake Marius somehow before that very same crowd realised that he was going through a flashback so terrible that he had gone catatonic. 

Mathieu had no idea how to even begin, but he was going to try his best.

He drew his hand back, and slapped Marius across the face.

*

The crowd was restless, murmuring amongst themselves as the gunman was walked up the stage. Some of them were holding onto each other, tear streaks on their faces. Cosette looked at all of them, in their fear. She pushed away the image of Marius, falling over and not getting back up, frozen and staring into nothing, his mind caught into the grip of a nightmare.

 _Give me strength_ , she begged, her hand spreading over stomach. Marius’s daughter kicked her palm, and she took another deep breath.

She had to do this right. She had to make sure that none of the people here would ever feel so afraid again. She had to make sure that Marius would never again be so terribly afraid.

Then she walked over to the gunman. She stood in front of him. When Papa handed her the microphone, she took it without looking away from those apprehensive, dark eyes.

“What is your name, Monsieur?” she asked.

The crowd burst into whispers. She ignored them, keeping her eyes focused on the man front of her. She held the microphone towards his lips. 

“I tried to kill your husband, woman, and you ask me for my name?” he said, incredulity dripping from every word.

Cosette smiled. “Yes, Monsieur,” she said, careful to keep her voice calm. “I’m asking for your name.”

He stared at her with narrowed eyes. She did not look away. “Clémence Duval,” he said finally, grudgingly. His hands were clenched by his side.

She looked at M. Javert. He shrugged – the name was unknown to him as well.

“Where are you from, M. Duval?” she asked.

“Do you mean my birth place, or my faction?” The words seemed to be wrenched from him.

“Both.”

He barked a laugh. “Paris. St. Michel.” His lips twisted into a smile, turning towards the crowd. “Scum of the streets, unlike the most of you.”

Throwing his head back, he jutted out his chin. “And I’m from St. Expeditus’s Workers.”

Murmurs burst out amongst the crowd. Now _that_ was a name all of them recognised – it was a rising faction amongst Parisians, noted for their constant call for a violent revolution in the same manner of the Russian workers who overthrew their monarch more than two hundred years ago. 

“So you have read Mathieu’s books,” she said quietly.

There was another harsh, barking laugh. Duval bared his teeth at her. “I used to be one of his students,” he said. His eyes shifted towards the man still sitting behind the podium.

“Right, _Monsieur_?”

Mathieu stood up. He had leaned Marius against the podium. Cosette didn’t want to look, but she had to – and she breathed a sigh of relief when she saw that Marius was blinking, though he hadn’t moved on his own yet and was still looking dazed. She clenched her hand around the microphone so she would not go to him; it was not the time.

“Yes,” Mathieu said, and his voice was so loud and clear that it echoed around the square without the need of the microphone. “I am glad that you remembered my lessons, Clémence.”

The man snorted. Cosette held the microphone back towards his lips.

“I wasn’t one of your favourites,” he sneered. “I wasn’t, and I’m still not, one of those who want this peaceful revolution.”

He lurched forward suddenly, yanking himself out of M. Javert’s grip. Before he could be caught again, he grabbed the microphone and turned to the crowd.

“Look at all of them here!” he yelled. “Look at all of these rich bastards who are telling us to _wait_!”

“Bastard,” M. Javert hissed. But before he could tackle Duval, Cosette grabbed his elbow. She shook her head, and murmured, under her breath:

“Let him speak.”

“All of them here have not waited for the past seven years while starving and suffering! I’m not like them! _We’re_ not like them! Hope can’t feed us all. It can’t get my brother out of jail! And my brother has been in jail for these past seven years while they tell us – wait! He’s not, I’m not, and _we’re_ not the people these rich bastards know personally! We’re not the ones that they think worthy to be fought for!”

He whirled around to them, looking from Mathieu to Cosette before turning to the crowd again.

“I can’t wait anymore,” he said. “I can’t. I want the justice they’ve been promising us, over and over, and never delivering! I want that bastard Louis-Jérôme _dead_! I want _all_ of his family dead.” He grinned – a ghastly thing. “Yes, even that _Monsieur Philippe_ ,” he drawled the name, “you all love so well. Even my old teacher here.”

His finger jabbed towards Mathieu, who remained unmoving.

“We should follow the Russians.” He barked another laugh. “We should follow our old ancestors, and kill all of the rich bastards. Their blood will pay for all of our suffering. It will pay for all of _our_ blood that has been spilled during all those years before this fucking _peaceful revolution_ ,” he spat the words out, “was even thought about.”

“No.”

Marius’s voice. Cosette turned.

Her husband was barely managing to stand. His face was ash-white, and he was leaning half against the broken podium and half against Mathieu. He turned a smile towards Cosette, and though it was a weak, shaky thing, she could not help but return it.

She watched as he swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing, before he turned towards the crowd. His hand shook as he dragged his hand through his hair.

“There was,” he started. His voice broke. He took another breath, turning towards the man who tried to kill him, and tried again.

“Eight years ago, there was an attempt at a revolution,” he said, and his voice was loud and clear now. “I do not know if anyone here remembers, but nowadays it’s called the June Riots.”

He smiled with dead eyes to the crowd.

“All of my friends were there.” He pushed himself away from Mathieu, from the podium, and took shaky steps towards Duval. “I was there, and I watched as people died. I watched as my friends died in front of me.”

Dragging a hand through his hair again, he caught Cosette’s hand as she held it towards him. She wrapped her other arm around his waist, supporting him.

“Do you remember the name Courfeyrac?” Marius asked. “Combeferre? Enjolras? Feuilly? Bahorel? Prouvaire? Lesgle? Joly? Grantaire?”

As he said each name, tears spilled down his cheeks.

“No,” Duval said. Though he was still holding the microphone to his lips, his voice sounded so much softer than Marius’s.

“Save for Feuilly, each one of them were a rich boy,” he told Duval. “All of them are dead. Their blood stained the ground of Saint-Denis. Sometimes, when I walk past the streets, I can still smell it.”

He shuddered. Cosette pulled him a little closer, squeezing his hand.

“I survived because of luck, and M. Jean Valjean,” he said. “I was shot in the thigh, and the pain made me black out. M. Valjean brought me out of the barricade by the sewers, but I don’t remember that. I remember… I remember the footsteps of the National Guards. I remember trying my best to not breathe so I wouldn’t give myself away.”

Duval was absolutely silent.

“During this peaceful revolution, I’ve met the families of the National Guards who died.” He turned towards the crowd, and his smile was heavy and sad. “Some of them may be here now. Some of them might be hearing this. I’m sorry I did not tell any of you about this. I hope you’re still on our side, despite this.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Duval’s voice was little more than a croak.

Marius’s smile turned crooked. “Blood solves nothing,” he said. “The blood of rich boys, the blood of the National Guard, has already soaked into St. Denis. Even though it has washed away, it is still there, if only because of me.”

Cosette leaned up and kissed her husband’s cheek. She squeezed his hand again before she pulled away. Mathieu came up behind her and allowed Marius to lean against him instead.

As the crowd watched, silent; as the country – hopefully – watched through their screens and projectors, she took the five steps needed to be in front of Duval.

Then she wrapped her arms around him and drew him into an embrace.

Duval choked. He dropped the microphone. The speakers screeched when it hit the ground. No one seemed to notice.

After a few moments, she stepped backwards, picked up the microphone, and turned to the crowd again.

“I’m sorry,” she said, keeping her voice calm. “I’m sorry for all you have suffered. I’m sorry for all we have not managed to do.”

“You…” Duval seemed at a loss of words.

Curving her lips up into the gentlest smile she could manage, she nodded. “There is nothing to forgive, for any of us,” she said. “You tried to shoot at my husband, at the father of my unborn child,” she pressed her hand over her stomach in emphasis, “but there is no hatred.”

She took a deep breath.

“Please,” she begged both him and the crowd. “Please. Let there not be blood for this. If you cannot believe in it through Mathieu’s lessons in history, then remember the June Riots.” 

Marius’s breath hitched.

“Remember Courfeyrac. Remember Enjolras. Remember Combeferre. Remember Feuilly, Bahorel, Joly, Lesgle, Prouvaire, and Grantaire. Remember the rich boys who have died. Remember all of the National Guards who died.”

She closed her eyes. A tear slipped down her cheek. “Let’s add no more names, no more bodies. Please.”

Handing the microphone back to M. Javert, she wrapped her arms around Duval again.

And she caught him when he fell to his knees. She held him tight as he started to shake.

“We’ll do what we can,” she heard her Papa said. “Whatever lack there has been in our actions, please know that it is not deliberate. We are few, we are human. Please come forward and _tell us_ your stories.”

She closed her eyes, feeling a wealth of love for her father, for the man who was made a symbol of a revolution he never wanted and who stepped up to the role so well despite hating the attention.

“But please,” he said. “No more blood. No more pain.”

There was a joke a Parisian newsman made a couple of weeks back: _when Jean Valjean speaks, the country listens. Maybe one day we’ll ask him about the kind of water we should drink._

“I promise,” Jean Valjean said. “We will listen. We will help.”

It was only a joke because it was proven true, over and over again

 _Listen_ , she begged the country. If they wouldn’t listen to Mathieu, or Marius, or her, let them listen to her father.

*** “Please, let me through,” Philippe begged the Guards. He gripped a bar of the gate with one hand, gulping down air. “Please.”

The Guards looked amongst themselves.

“Monsieur,” one of them began hesitantly. “Your father said that if you come in again, then we are ordered to not let you out again.”

Philippe stared at him. He dragged a hand through his curls before he straightened. He did not look behind him where he knew Mathieu was waiting for him. His hand clenched tighter around the bar. The Castle Fontainebleau loomed large in front of him. It had been only two years since he walked out into freedom, but…

He would give that up – give up all of the friends he had made, give up having his brother at his side – for a chance to convince his father. It was the least he could do.

“That’s a risk that I’m willing to take,” he said.

A moment passed as the Guards looked amongst themselves. Then one of them sighed.

“Come out when you’re done, Monsieur,” he said, his voice distorted by the full-face helmet he wore. “We’ll let you out.”

“No,” Philippe shook his head immediately. “I will not let you risk your livelihood or your lives for my sake.” He forced his lips up into a smile.

“I’ll get permission to leave. If I can’t, then I won’t.” He dragged the smile wider. “But let me through, so I can talk to my father.”

The Guards looked amongst themselves again. Then they looked at him again, and gave a collective shrug.

“We’ll let you out,” the leader amongst them said. “Fuck whatever will happen to us.”

Before Philippe could protest again, the Guards stood back. One of them pressed a series of buttons at the keypad in the middle of the gate, then removed his glove and pressed his hand on an extending pad. Philippe noted, distantly, that the security measures had changed.

That was only natural, wasn’t it?

He took another breath, and stepped through. Just as the gates slammed closed again behind him, he turned back and gave Mathieu what he hoped was a reassuring smile. He locked his eyes on that small figure, engraving the sight of him – and Mathieu, laughing at breakfast this morning at something Bressole had said – into his mind.

Then he walked up to the Castle. The door opened even before he reached the first step. He shoved his shaking hands into his pockets and stepped inside.

This was something only he could do. This was something he had to do. He held onto the thought as he walked down the hallways towards his father’s office.

Had the Castle always felt so empty, so silent? Had his footsteps ever echoed so loudly? Surely nothing had changed, but… but he had not heard such silence in a long time. In his and Mathieu’s apartment – in _Mathieu and Azelma’s_ apartment, he reminded himself – there wasn’t such silence even in the middle of the night during those times when he woke up just to look out at the stars.

There wasn’t even the sound of anyone’s breathing except for his own.

He walked faster, louder. Eventually, he reached his father’s office. Placing his hand on the doorknob, he took another breath before he pushed the door open.

His father was sitting on the large sill right beside the window. There was a cigarette in his hand, the bright orange ember the brightest thing in the dim room. He had a leg drawn up, the other swinging beside him. Even as Philippe closed the door, he didn’t turn around – only took a deep drag.

“You’re here to convince me to abdicate, aren’t you?”

Of course his father would have guessed. Philippe tried to smile.

“Yes.”

The leader of the country turned to look at him. Those dark eyes were filled with things indecipherable even to his son. “Come on, sit down,” he waved a hand. “Make yourself comfortable.”

Philippe walked forward, and dropped down into the chair. His father smiled – a cold, insincere stretch of lips – before he shrugged extravagantly.

“Go on. Make that speech you’ve already prepared.”

“I haven’t prepared a speech,” Philippe said.

“Oh?”

“You have already thought up of any arguments I can make,” he said. “There’s nothing I can say that will convince you.”

His father blinked. He leaned forward, resting his head on his folded hands. “Then,” he drawled, “why are you here?”

Philippe took a deep breath. “To give you an excuse,” he said. “To do what’s right.”

Before he could be interrupted, he barrelled on. “I know that I said two years ago that you could have had M. Valjean arrested. You could have the judgment overturned. You could have made M. Javert a slave again. You can still do all of that—”

He stopped when his father barked a laugh. “Look at you,” the older man said, leaning back on his chair. “Calling those lower than yourself by _Monsieur_.”

“Because they deserve my respect,” Philippe replied, keeping his voice even and calm. “But, Father—”

“You used to call me ‘Dad’,” his father said, almost idly.

Years ago, he had. Before his father came to the throne of Napoleon, and became a different man. Philippe closed his eyes, pushing down the memories and the pain.

“Do you want me to?” he asked, unable to help himself.

“You’ll only use it as a tactic to get me to see things your way,” his father said. He waved a hand. “Go on. Finish what you were saying.”

Philippe could argue that he would have meant it. But there were only some battles he could win, and he knew this wasn’t one of them. 

“They deserve my respect,” he repeated, steadying his shaking hands in his lap. “They are not less than me just because of… of our luck in the genetic lottery.”

When his father jerked, he knew the shot had landed true. Those were the same words his father used to say to him whenever he spoke about his position; about his privilege and the duties and responsibilities that came with them.

There was a long moment of silence. Philippe fought not to fidget; fought to keep his breathing calm even as it felt as if the air was growing thinner and thinner around him.

“Do you know why I didn’t do anything when the _Monsieur le Président of the Cour de Cassation_ ,” the title was drawled, heavy with mockery, “gave that ruling years ago?”

Philippe had argued that case with his father; had burst into his office the moment the ruling was announced. But he shook his head nonetheless.

“Your little argument didn’t have anything to do with it,” his father said. He let out a quiet sigh, and he turned and stared at the bookshelves lining the walls of his office.

“I suppose it’s too late for me to say that I’ve always known that the system we have is one that cannot last.” Philippe jerked, and was given a dark smile in response. “I’m already the villain of this story that you’re making.” 

“You don’t have to be,” Philippe said. “There’s still a chance to- to make things better.”

 _To redeem yourself_ , he wanted to say, but the tightrope he now walked on was too thin already.

“It’s already far too late,” his father said bitterly. His eyes fixed on Philippe. “I’ve worked and worked to make a world in which you don’t have to be afraid of war. Not like I was. This is the only way things can be; the only way that we can stop war from ever happening again.” 

“No,” Philippe blurted out. “It- it doesn’t have to be this way, Father. People are people, they are not—”

He was interrupted again when his father barked a hoarse, dark laugh. “You’re here because someone tried to assassinate that friend of yours,” he said. His smile was wide and grotesque. “There are already factions popping up that called for my death, for your death, for the death of every single person currently holding onto some kind of power. And you still say that they are _people_?”

“They _are_ people,” Philippe insisted. “They act this way because they don’t understand. Because they never had a _chance_ to understand. They don’t have education—”

“No education!” his father crowed. “You say that, but it was rich, educated boys who took guns and shot at the National Guards during that barricade your friend was talking about.”

His smile widened. “Those _June Riots_ you thought about.”

Philippe took a deep breath. “But that already contradicts your point, Father,” he said quietly. “You denied the poor education, but it was the poor who did not join those rich, educated boys. It was the rich and educated who used their resources to buy guns.”

Leaning forward, he gripped the edge of his father’s massive mahogany desk. “It was the rich and educated who misused the laws,” he said. 

“They are not beasts,” his father said, arching an eyebrow.

“No, they are worse,” Philippe shook his head. “Tholomyés, Listolier, and their ilk… They are _children_ who think the law is their plaything. Their position has stunted them, made them think themselves above everyone else, and that’s…”

His nails dug into the wood. 

“That’s your fault, Father.”

“ _My_ fault!” His father repeated, voice so loud that it bounced off the walls. “How are you making me the villain _this_ time?”

 _Not the villain_ , Philippe wanted to argue. _Only a man who has made mistakes, like every other man._

He shoved down the words. More battles he could not win.

“The justification for our current system of laws is that there are some who are allowed privileges that others are denied,” he said instead, keeping his voice low. “It’s already implied, Father.”

“That only means that every person has a role to play,” his father shot back, eyes blazing. “Do you believe in anarchy, then? Do you believe that society should be _free_ ,” he sneered out the word, “without any structures?”

“We need structures,” Philippe argued. “But the structures should make every person equal to each other, no matter what or who they are born as. Not slot them into places that they never chose for themselves.”

His father laughed again. The sound buffeted Philippe’s ears, sending pain shooting down his spine. He dug his fingers even harder into the wood.

“Oh, so the fact that you are a leader of this little revolution is just a matter of coincidence, then?” The older man arched an eyebrow. “That Mathieu and that lawyer friend of yours, both rich and educated, are?”

Philippe shook his head. “We’re not the leaders,” he said. “We are only the ones with the resources to do what needs to be done.”

“Then who _is_ the leader?”

“The man who was born terribly poor and learned to read only in prison,” Philippe said. “Jean Valjean is.”

His father stilled entirely. “Jean Valjean,” he repeated, incredulity clear in his voice.

“Mathieu and I would not have done anything, would not have figured out anything, if I hadn’t found that video of Jean Valjean’s trial at Arras,” Philippe said. “We would have been helpless.”

“Explain,” his father demanded. 

“Jean Valjean is a man who defies every single assumption that lies behind our current laws,” Philippe said. “He was born poor, but he was a good man who stole to feed someone else, not himself. He was jailed for nineteen years, but instead of returning to crime, he set up a factory, revitalised a town, and was even made Mayor.”

He gave his father a crooked smile. “A decision that you sanctioned yourself, Father.”

“A decision I regretted,” his father said. “That I still regret.”

“But still a decision you made,” Philippe returned. “He learned to read only at eighteen. He never learned business from his father – his father was a tree pruner, and by the time he started a business, his father was long dead. He learned it all by himself.”

Taking a deep breath, he leaned forward even further. “Not only that, but he used the money he earned not for himself, but for the town he was in. Montreuil-sur-Mer, Father. You remember that town. Not only did he not hate the world and the society that jailed him, but he tried his best to help. What money he didn’t give away then was given to Cosette as her dowry upon her wedding.”

His father’s eyes narrowed. “He is just one man,” he said. “To change an entire system for one man is ridiculous.”

“It is logical,” Philippe argued. “Because that one man has changed so many around him, Father. Not only Mathieu and myself, but M. Javert, and Marius Pontmercy, and Cosette, and all of his students at Mathieu’s school.”

He bit his lip, and pushed on. “Even those students… Father, so many of them showed the ability to learn. They were born poor, they were not educated in their childhood, but they never turned into beasts. They aren’t angry. All they want is…

“All they want is to live, Father. To live as people, not beasts. That’s what anyone wants.”

Philippe himself included, though he would never dare to say those words out loud in fear of jeopardising his argument. He wanted to be treated as a person and not as a songbird, eternally shut up in this overly-gilded cage.

He wanted his father to live the same way too.

“Let’s just take your idea here and assume it to be true,” the man said, one eyebrow hiked up. “If one man is enough to shatter the assumptions of an entire system, then your proposed system has already been shattered long ago. All of those factions now rising up who want you dead.”

“But they haven’t killed me yet.”

“One of them tried to kill that lawyer friend of yours.”

“Yes,” Philippe said. “He did.”

“So you can’t prove me wrong by your own logic,” his father said, spreading out his hands. “What are you here for, then?”

“If my logic doesn’t work, then let me use Monsieur le Président’s,” Philippe said. “We must look upon each person’s as an individual, and not as just a part of a whole to be brushed over. To do the latter is a convenience.”

His father rolled his eyes. “You can’t build a system on such a thing. Much less a government.”

“But we can do our best to try,” Philippe countered. “We can take the votes of the people. We can _ask_ them what they want.”

To allow them a say in their own fate, instead of it resting on the hands of Philippe and his father; two who were just part of the millions despite the power in their hands.

“You’re suggesting a referendum,” his father stated flatly.

Philippe nodded. “Yes.”

“What if the people said that they want the current system to stay?” his father asked, eyebrow arching again. “What if, despite all of your efforts, they do not want a change?”

That was a possibility that Philippe had already considered; one that refused to leave his mind. He looked down at his hands for a moment, gathering his courage to speak the decision he had already made.

“Then we’ll stop,” he said. “The results of the referendum will be published, and we’ll – all of us, Marius, Mathieu, M. Valjean, and Cosette – make an announcement that we won’t go against your rulings anymore. We’ll make use of any influence we have to make sure the other factions stop as well.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” Philippe took a deep breath. “I’ll… I’ll even come back. To live here.”

A risky gamble to make, given that he had already thrown away that card the moment he stepped through the gates.

“If you stop,” his father said, slow and contemplative. “Then what you have done will be treason.”

He smiled, dark and terrible. “All of you.”

Philippe jerked. The freedom of all of those who had fought for his… Could he gambled that? Did he even have the right? He thought about Mathieu, waiting for him outside the gates.

His brother could end up behind bars. No, he would end up dead. That was- that was the punishment of treason.

But if he didn’t gamble this, then he would have nothing. 

Could he place his hopes in the people?

There were so many two years ago who came to protest for the emancipation law. But that was just Paris. This would be the entire country. Could he place his hopes in the idea, the mere _idea_ , that their influence had reached so far?

Cosette told him about the guard in Rochefort. But that was only one man.

Was this what it felt like to rule? He didn’t want this. He never wanted this.

No one else could do this.

Opening his eyes, he met his father’s gaze. Slowly, he nodded.

“A referendum,” he said quietly. “If the people say that they wished for a new system, then you abdicate. If they say that we don’t, then… all of us will be executed for treason.”

His father froze. His eyes went wide. Philippe noted dully that this was definitely _not_ the answer he had expected.

They stared at each other for long moments. His father’s hands were trembling. Philippe clenched his own into fists. He waited.

“Call in your lawyer friend,” his father, Our Second Napoleon, said finally. “Call in Mathieu from where he’s waiting by the gate. Draft up the contract. Draft up the questions. I’ll look over them.”

Philippe breathed. But his father wasn’t finished yet.

“After you have gotten what you wanted…” he paused, standing up and walking to the window.

His back was to Philippe when he said: “Get out of here.”

Philippe pushed back his chair. Even though he knew his father might not see it, he stood and bowed as low as he could.

“Thank you, Father.”

“Don’t,” his father said. There was something achingly hollow in his voice. “Thank your people only when they have repaid you for your faith.”

 _They will_ , Philippe thought. Still, he could not help but continue:

 _I hope_.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been having quite a lot of computer troubles - apparently my laptop's motherboard is dying and I sent it for repairs - so comments and such will come at a time when I'm not constantly fighting with the backup laptop I have. Which is my dad's and old as hell. Updates will be on time - I have a lot of chapters written in advance. This is why I always try to write so much ahead of deadlines. 8D


	8. Seven, 2142 [Part Two]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The world turns upside down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> **Book I Chapter 8: Seven, 2142 [Part Two]**  
> 
> 
> **Warnings:** Explicit description of violence and panic attacks caused by post-traumatic stress disorder. This chapter is also long enough for me to cut it into two. Direct continuation of Chapter 7.

“You don’t have to talk to him,” M. Javert said.

He was leaning against the wall of a room in Mathieu’s old school, which had been refurbished to add a new second level in order to serve as their headquarters. It became too complicated, and too dangerous, to use the house on Rue Plumet a couple of years ago. Besides, as Mathieu had said, the improvements made in the country meant improvements to the school – it now looked so much better, though it was still cold in winter.

“Because people are still out cold in the streets,” Mathieu had said, and refused to be swayed by any argument.

Marius shook his head. “I have to,” he said. His eyes flickered towards the room again. “If I don’t… you know that Papa will do it.”

M. Javert grimaced. He rubbed a hand over his beard, scratching under his ear.

“I could talk to him,” he said, shrugging. “You need him to do something for you. I’m better at that than you are. Or Valjean, for the matter.”

Why M. Javert called Papa still by his last name when he was quite possibly the closest person to him in the entire world, Marius still didn’t know, or would understand if he knew. He brushed away the thought immediately – it was irrelevant at the moment.

“Your methods of persuasion are,” he hesitated. “Not what we need right now.”

“Right.” M. Javert huffed a quiet laugh. He pushed himself away from the wall, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Well, it’s your funeral.”

His eyes narrowed. “I’ll be waiting out here to make sure it’s not _actually_ your funeral.”

Marius gave him a wry, tired smile. “I’m hoping it won’t come to that,” he said, boxing up that instinctive screech in his mind and the echoes of the gunshots of a few hours ago. He took a deep breath.

“Can I ask that you don’t come in unless you really need to?” He bit his lip. “If I call out for you specifically.”

M. Javert looked at him for a long moment. As always, his gaze was almost too sharp, almost too piercing – it threatened to strip Marius down to his very bones. He resisted the urge to take a breath, or even clench his fist, and simply held his ground.

“Fine,” M. Javert said grudgingly. “Just don’t make me explain to Valjean and Cosette why I stood around when you were in danger, alright?”

“I won’t be in danger,” Marius said, reassuring him with a conviction he didn’t really feel. M. Javert obviously could hear it, because he raised an eyebrow, but he made no more protest but simply leaned against the wall.

“Go on then,” he said.

Marius gave him another smile, steadying it as much as possible. Turning to face the door, he took a deep breath before he pushed it open.

Duval was sitting on top of the large table, his legs swinging and hitting one of the legs at odd intervals. Mathieu’s red-jacketed _Communist Manifesto_ was in his hand, and he was flipping through it. He didn’t look up when Marius closed the door.

For the first time, Marius took a proper look at him: a black man in his late twenties at most, tall – not as tall as M. Javert, though that was a high bar to reach – and broad-shouldered with a frame that seemed too lean to support it, with close-cropped hair and dark, large eyes.

“Frey never taught us anything from this book,” Duval said. “We learned about history, about the revolutions of our own country. We learned about the revolution of the Chinese.” A bitter smile curved up his lips. “I even remember the name of the leader: Mao Zedong, he who tried to push his country forward into industrialisation and ended up with hundreds of thousands corpses whose blood fertilised the fields he wanted so much to get rid of”

Marius had never heard of the name. Frey was the historian; _he_ was the lawyer. So he kept his silence.

“Every time Frey talked about revolution, he didn’t keep out the terrible parts of it. Mao Zedong’s dead were the least of it. There was the Reign of Terror after the first French Revolution, and all of its beheaded aristocrats.” He gave a tiny, bitter laugh. “I never understood why he did that. Wasn’t he trying to make a revolution happen?”

His eyes darted towards Marius, but they were blank, as if they weren’t looking at him. “It was only until later that I realised that education and information could be weaponised. He told us about revolution – their causes and their consequences. But not the theories behind them. Not the things that gave them legitimacy in the first place. I had to find those out myself.”

He gave another laugh, this time louder and sharper. “He truly is his uncle’s nephew, his grandfather’s grandson.”

Taking the three steps necessary, Marius pulled out a chair and dropped into it, a little distance away from Duval. He looked up into the other man’s face.

“The modern bourgeois society,” he recited, “that has sprouted from the ruins of feudal society has not done away with class antagonisms. It has but established new classes, new conditions of oppression – new forms of struggle in place of the old ones.” His lips quirked upwards, and he waved towards the book in Duval’s hand. “Page fourteen.”

Folding his hands, he cocked his head. “Marx called communism itself a spectre. A ghost. He meant it as something that spreads terror amongst the bourgeoisie, I believe, but… after all you have learned from Frey, do you not see another meaning?”

“An object of terror,” Duval said. “Not just for the bourgeoisie, but for everyone else as well. The terror of a spectre does not discriminate.”

“Yes,” Marius nodded.

Duval snapped the book shut, dropping it on the table. The _thud_ it made echoed around the room. He turned around until he was fully facing Marius, eyes narrowing as he leaned down towards him with his hands splayed on top of the table.

“Why are you _here_?”

Shoving aside his instincts, Marius stilled himself, and didn’t back away. “To talk to you,” he said quietly.

“To make me join your side?” Duval sneered.

“If that’s what you want to do at the end of our talk,” he replied. “But not without your consent. That’s not how we do things.”

Snorting, Duval crossed his arms. “Go on, then.”

Marius looked at him for a moment. Then he smiled. “Do you mind sitting on the chair?” he asked, deliberately keeping his voice soft. If there was anything he had learned from Papa and Cosette, it was that a request went over much better than any demand. “This might take some time, and my neck will ache terribly if I have to keep looking up like this.”

“You can sit on the table.”

“I prefer the chair.”

Duval looked at him for a moment more. “Fine,” he said. He jumped down from the table, pulling out the chair with a violence that made its legs screech against the bare concrete floor. Marius didn’t flinch.

“Mathieu’s methods are very different from mine,” he said quietly once Duval had settled down. “I might have gone to university, but I never had the kind of resources he did. But perhaps…” he shrugged. “Perhaps what I have instead is experience.”

He took a deep, steadying breath. “There was a name I didn’t say in front of everyone earlier, a friend of mine who died at the barricades.” His eyes flickered down to his hands. For just a moment, he could almost see the slick, gleaming red that had covered them. He shoved the image away.

“Her name was Éponine. Her life was cold and dark, but she was unafraid.” He smiled helplessly. “She had always been unafraid.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Duval cut in.

“Please,” Marius said, dragging a hand through his hair. “I’m not a very good storyteller, but I try my best. Please let me finish.”

Duval’s gaze rested on him for a long moment. Then he nodded, and leaned back on his chair.

“There’s something I remember very well about her,” Marius continued. He tipped his head up, staring at the bare concrete ceiling. “Once, she told me that she was just as smart as any of my other friends, those rich students. I laughed at her then, but she insisted, and she told me… she told me she could write.”

His eyes went back to Duval, and his lips quirked up into a wry, bitter smile. “She wrote: ‘the police is coming.’ Even though it was not the only thing she could write, it was… it was the first that came to her mind.”

Duval was silent. Marius didn’t look at him; he couldn’t.

“I was too young and too blind to see what that meant at that time,” he said. “But with every single speech, every single rally… I remember Éponine. I remember the way she was so proud of writing: ‘the police is coming’. I remember the bruises on her arms, the way her bones would stick through the skin. I remember how she told me that she kept her hair in dreadlocks because it meant that she didn’t have to wash it often, and it was hard to find showers when she was living on the streets.

“You said that… we are all rich kids who don’t know what we’re talking about, who don’t know what it’s like to suffer.” Marius shrugged a little. “Maybe that’s true for me. But… Éponine is Azelma’s sister, you know.”

“Azelma?” Duval asked, the name seeming to burst out of him. He lurched forward, eyes wide. “Azelma _Frey_? His wife?”

“His wife,” Marius nodded. “She and Éponine, her sister… they spent their early years in the inn that their parents owned. But their parents were cheats and thieves, and eventually they lost the inn, and they ended up living on the streets. Being homeless didn’t change their parents…”

His smile widened. His mouth ached. “‘The police is coming,’ she wrote for me, trying to show off that she was just as smart. The first thing she could think of to write. The thing she had most practice at, because the police was a thing she learned how to fear.”

Duval was staring at him. He opened his mouth, then closed it. His Adam’s apple bobbed. “How did… how did Éponine die?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“She was shot,” Marius said, closing his eyes. “At the barricades.”

The chair clattered to the ground, the sound sharp and sudden. “Then you’re just proving me right! She is… she was like us, the scum of the streets, and she still _believed_ in the barricades, that we should—”

“No,” Marius said, cutting Duval off. “She was at the barricades because of me. She died because of me.”

“… What?”

Opening his eyes, Marius gave Duval another smile. It felt broken. “She was dressed as a boy,” he said. “I didn’t recognise her at first. When I did, she said…” His hands clenched into tight fists.

“You’re worried about me. That shows that you like me a lot.” He shook his head hard. “She didn’t believe in any of the ideals of the barricade. Nothing about revolution. She came because of _me_. And she died… she died while climbing the barricade we built, because I asked her to deliver a letter in some hope that it would keep her safe.”

“That…” Duval trailed off. His eyes were wide.

“As she was dying… her blood was all over my hands. But she was smiling at me. She smiled, and sang a little song she learned years ago down south at Montfermeil, in the inn where she grew up.”

He took a deep breath. He hadn’t been able to think about this for years, but now… now he _had to_. Taking a deep breath, he started to sing:

“The rains that brings you here is heaven-blessed, the skies begin to clear and I’m at rest…. A breath away from where you are. I’ve come home from so far. I don’t feel any pain. A little fall of rain can hardly hurt me now. You will keep me safe, and you will me close… and rain will make the flowers…” he choked, and then forced the words out.

“Grow.” He laughed shakily. “It has been years, and I still can’t…” he wiped at his cheeks, unashamed of the tears that were spilling. “I still can’t finish the song.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Duval asked. His voice was trembling.

Marius smiled at him. He reached across the table and picked up the book. “It wasn’t because of propaganda that Mathieu never told you about the theories,” he said quietly. “It’s because he wanted to tell you instead about the people. Those who lived, those who died. The people that theories obliterate and history ignores, but who are those we are fighting for, nonetheless.”

Duval swayed on his feet. He closed his eyes. Marius stood, righting the man’s chair and leading him back to sit down on it.

“Every single person has their own stories, their own griefs,” he continued. “Éponine’s life was terrible and dark, and I was blind and stupid. I never saw it or did anything for her.” He took a steady breath, and dropped down back into his chair. Folding his hands, he leaned forward, once more catching Duval’s gaze.

“But she still… she still could find some kind of hope within herself. Within that darkness, she found enough light to be proud of what she had done. Enough light to love someone who could have been the symbol of everything she should hate.”

His lips curved up into a crooked smile. “Enough light to comfort a rich fool even when she was dying in his arms, for his sake.”

“I…” Duval started. He shook his head hard, and fell silent.

“You call us all rich fools, and maybe I am, but I’m vastly outnumbered,” Marius continued. “M. Jean Valjean grew up in Faverolles in the years just after the unification. His father didn’t have a surname, and they were all so poor, terribly so, that he ended up in jail because he stole a single loaf of bread to feed his sister’s son.”

Duval stared at him. He nodded. “I know that,” he said. His voice was dull.

“The first time I met Azelma, she was as thin as her sister had been: all skin and bones. She had a job, but she was starving herself so she could put food on the table for her brothers, and to send them to school.”

He took a breath, and hoped that Cosette and Papa would forgive him. “Cosette… my wife… she spent five years under the care of Azelma and Éponine’s parents. They beat her, starved her, and forced her to do chores. She used to sweep the streets in the middle of winter dressed in nothing but rags and slippers.”

“But-” Duval said. He shook his head hard. “But you have _Javert_ in your midst. The police that- that Éponine was taught to be afraid of. The very _symbol_ of the system that grind all of us – Éponine, Azelma, even your wife and M. Valjean! – down to nothingness!” 

He stood up, slapping his hands on the table. “I was going to shoot him if I couldn’t go for you,” he threw at Marius. “He…”

Marius waited.

“He was the bastard who arrested my brother!”

Oh. Marius blinked. This was… he dragged a hand through his hand. Maybe he should have asked Papa to speak to Duval instead, because he was much more an expert on the subject of M. Javert than Marius was, or ever wanted to be.

Still, he was the one here now. He had to try.

Standing up, he reached forward and placed a cautious arm on Duval’s shoulder. It trembled beneath his grip for a moment, and the man didn’t push him away.

“I cannot speak for M. Javert,” he said quietly. “Neither can I apologise for him. But… every man has his own grief, Monsieur. M. Javert grew up in prison.”

“Then he should have _known_!” Duval cried. “He should have known what it’s like to be in that horrible place. He should have known better than… than….” He stopped, seemingly unable to continue.

Marius scrambled for words. All of those that came first in his mind seemed terribly inappropriate. 

“Do you…” he hesitated. “Do you want me to ask him to come in?” _To apologise_ , Marius wanted to continue, because he knew M. Javert well enough that the man would wish to do that. But that might be too much for Duval at the moment.

Duval stared at him. “I…” he took a shuddering breath. Instinctively, Marius squeezed his shoulder, and the man seemed to straighten from that touch.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay.”

Nodding, Marius stepped back. “I’ll get him,” he said quietly. “I’ll give you a few moments to gather yourself, too.”

He walked out of the room. Like he expected, M. Javert was still outside, arms crossed and eyes half-lidded. They snapped open in full when Marius closed the door.

“Are you finished?” he asked.

Marius shook his head. “I think he needs to speak to you,” he said quietly. “He said… he said that you were the one who arrested his brother.” He decided to keep the fact that Duval wanted to shoot M. Javert to himself.

M. Javert blinked. His fingers reached up to his neck, to where the collar had not been for years, and wrapped around it. 

“Does he want to kill me?” he asked.

So much for keeping secrets. Marius gave a hesitant nod. “Yes,” he said.

“Then you better come in with me,” M. Javert said. His smile was a bitter, lopsided thing. “So I’m not tempted to let him try.”

Everyone had their own grief, everyone had their own horrors. How could Marius ever forget that when he was reminded of the fact every single day?

He nodded. “Alright,” he said, and reached for the door.

“Wait,” M. Javert said. He unbuttoned his leather coat, pulling it off and draping it on his arm. Without it, he suddenly seemed a lot smaller, a lot less like an officer of the law than just another man.

“Now we can.”

Marius looked at him for a moment more before he opened the door.

Duval was sitting straight-backed on the chair, his hands clenched white-knuckled tight on his lap. His eyes narrowed the moment M. Javert walked in, and widened when the man immediately tossed the coat into a nearby chair. He didn’t say a word when M. Javert took one of the chairs and dropped down to it, sitting a little distance away from Duval himself.

“What is your brother’s name?” M. Javert asked. His voice was soft, quiet.

“Dimitri Duval,” came the reply. The man’s lips curved into a dark smile. “You don’t remember him, do you?”

Marius held his breath.

“No,” M. Javert said.

The chair was knocked over again when Duval stood up. He lunged at M. Javert, hands grabbing at his collar, dragging him half out of the chair. Marius started forward, but he stopped immediately when he saw M. Javert hold up a hand.

“Don’t kill him,” he said helplessly instead.

But neither Duval nor M. Javert were listening to him. They were just staring at each other. Marius heard his heartbeat grow louder and louder in his ears.

_Please don’t make me explain to Cosette or, worse, Papa why M. Javert is dead_ , he begged the Lord.

“You have me now,” M. Javert said. His voice was still quiet. “Does it make you feel better?”

“It’ll make me feel better if I kill you,” Duval said. Though his teeth was gritted, though his voice was a growl, Marius could not believe him.

“But it won’t bring your brother out of jail,” M. Javert said. “You’ll only end up joining him.”

Duval’s hands tightened. _Stop making things worse_ , Marius screamed internally. _For God’s sake, M. Javert!_

“They said,” Duval began. “They said that you spent five years as a slave. They said that it’s supposed to be reparations for all that you’ve done. But you spent five years in the hands of… of someone who should have all the reasons to hate you but who ended up loving you instead.”

M. Javert’s face must have changed, because he barked a laugh. “Oh, we’ve noticed. You’ve tried to hide it, both of you. But it’s damned obvious for anyone who knows how to look. What kind of punishment is _that_?”

He leered. “It must have been some kind of sex game for the two of you.”

Even if M. Javert’s hands were still loose at his sides, Marius could not help but feel indignation and anger for both of their sakes. He, too, had seen the way the two of them looked and behaved around each other.

It was no exaggeration to say that Papa was the centre of M. Javert’s entire universe. The same way that Cosette was the centre of Marius’s.

Still, there was no point in speaking now.

“You’re right,” M. Javert said. “It wasn’t the correct punishment. I should have been given to Tholomyés’s instead. Or in the hands of anyone who had ever suffered by mine. I didn’t, and still don’t, deserve having Valjean.”

Duval’s eyes widened.

“There are reparations I still have not made,” M. Javert continued. “The things I have done through the years… I still haven’t made up for them. Once… once, I thought I could make up for my wrongs by jumping into the Seine.”

_What?_

That was not only Marius’s own thought. Duval’s voice was echoing it around the room. His hands on M. Javert’s collar had loosened, but M. Javert still did not push him away.

“Why didn’t you?” Duval asked.

“I was diverted,” M. Javert said. There was a terrifying hollowness to his voice. “I met Azelma. I was arrested. I went to jail.”

“You…” Duval said. Suddenly, he released his hands, and began to back away. Marius had only a moment to wonder why, about what the man saw, before M. Javert started to fall.

His knees smacked hard onto the concrete floor. Marius was already moving, standing in front of him. Those blue eyes were blank, glazed over, and though Marius had never seen M. Javert like this, he knew what this was. He knew exactly what this meant. He had asked Cosette before how he himself looked like whenever the memories threatened to drown him in their depths.

At the moment, he was completely at a loss. M. Javert wasn’t moving, didn’t even seem to be _breathing_.

Wait. That moment outside the door. A memory so long ago: a car, an accidentally-activated collar.

Marius moved entirely by instinct, a voice screaming wordlessly inside him. He reached out and, carefully, so carefully, closed his hand around M. Javert’s throat. 

The man still didn’t move. He squeezed. Still nothing. He shifted his hand, instincts screaming against the logic to press harder. There: something cool beneath his hand. Marius looked down, trying to avoid the sight of M. Javert’s blank eyes, and found a thin silver chain around the man’s neck.

He wrapped his fingers around it and _twisted_. At the same time, he shoved his knuckles straight into M. Javert’s throat, until he could feel M. Javert’s windpipe, until his bones were pressed against it.

There was another second of horrifying stillness. Then he could feel M. Javert’s throat began to work. He took off his hand, practically scrambling away as the man began to cough, began to hack. His hands scrabbled at his throat, over and over, as he bent over. 

“Oh my _God_ ,” he heard Duval said. The voice seemed to come from years upon years away.

M. Javert coughed again. The sound of his shaky, unstable breath filled the room.

Then he lifted his head up. There were red trails on his neck. His nails left blood on his white shirt when they wiped them away.

“Sorry,” he said. He wiped his hand over his face, and there was blood left there too. “I… Fuck. This was not how things were supposed to go.”

“Do you…” Marius paused. He glanced at Duval for a moment before he stepped closer. “Do you want me to call for Papa?”

“No,” M. Javert shook his head immediately. His head bowed. His shoulders trembled as he took another breath that seemed to shudder through his entire body. Both of his hands were tangled in the chain, red on silver gleaming underneath the fluorescent. It was beautiful; it was horrifying.

“No. Fuck. Don’t bother him.”

Marius tore his eyes away even as he opened his mouth to protest. Before he could, Duval walked into his line of sight.

“You know, I always thought that you… you are the embodiment of my worst nightmare,” he said. “But… I am yours as well, aren’t I?”

M. Javert turned to him. He made to stand up. Marius could not even make the first step to help him before Duval was gripping onto M. Javert’s arm, helping to steady him. So Marius went to get the chairs instead.

“Yes,” M. Javert said. There was something horribly dark in his eyes as he looked at Duval. He took another breath. “I… I am very aware of the mistakes I have made.”

He swayed. Marius shoved the chair forward until it hit his knees, and M. Javert half-fell, half-sat on it. 

“When my brother was arrested…” Duval trailed off. He shook his head. “I was fourteen at the time. We were running. He had hold of my hand. I didn’t know what he was running from, but I remember your voice. ‘Catch the bastard,’ you were yelling, and I wanted to say… my brother isn’t a bastard. _I’m_ not a bastard.”

Dragging a hand through his hair, he dropped into the chair Marius offered without even looking at him.

“My brother shoved me inside a dumpster. ‘Keep quiet and stay there,’ he said. ‘I’ll come and get you later,’ he said.” Duval laughed, a mirthless, hollow sound. “He never came to get me. I stayed there for two hours and he didn’t come to get me.”

“Did you see me arrest him?” M. Javert asked.

“No,” Duval shook his head. His eyes were blank, staring into something far away. “After a while, I stopped hearing your voice. But… the smell of the dumpster, the way bits of what’s inside…” he shuddered. “The way it stuck to my skin….”

He looked at M. Javert. His smile made Marius’s heart ache terribly. “Whenever I smell it, I’d gag and throw up. I’d start shaking. Made my life hell during the years I was on the streets, because the smell is everywhere.”

“Oh,” M. Javert said. He blinked. His eyes, Marius noted with deep relief, were starting to clear again. “So it’s not… not just us then.”

Duval’s mouth dropped open. “Us?”

Marius blinked when M. Javert looked at him. He stepped forward until he was half-leaning against the older man’s chair.

“I can’t abide gunshots,” he admitted, just a little wry. “Mathieu can’t look at a noose even in pictures. And M. Philippe…” he looked down at his hands. “He doesn’t do well with absolute silence.”

Eyes swivelling between him and M. Javert, Duval opened his mouth, and closed it. “I…” he trailed off.

“There’s the smell of blood too,” Marius continued. “If it gets too thick or overwhelming…” he shrugged.

“Valjean told me something, once,” M. Javert said. His voice was so soft that Duval leaned forward just to hear him. “He didn’t blame me for what I did. I chased him for years, hounded his footsteps, but he didn’t blame me. I was doing my duty, nothing more.”

He took a deep breath that wreaked through his frame. “It’s the duty itself that’s wrong.”

“Maybe it’s selfish of me,” Marius continued, eyes fixed on Duval. “But… I don’t want anyone else to be haunted like this. I’m going to be a father soon, and if… if my child can grow up in a world where they don’t have to be afraid that one day their every step will be dogged by shadows, then… then I’d want to give them that world.”

Duval closed his eyes. His head dropped into his hands. “I called you all rich bastards,” he said, his voice a little muffled. “But you’re… you’re the same as us.”

M. Javert was rubbing his fingers together. The blood was smearing everywhere, and Marius jerked his head away from the sight, fixing his eyes on the older man’s face instead. He didn’t allow himself to glance down to the chain, or even think about what it might mean.

“There’s something else that Valjean taught me,” M. Javert said. “Everyone has their own stories that made them the way they are. We can’t judge them until we know those stories.”

“Is that,” Duval began. He seemed to choke on his own words for a moment before he swallowed, looking up. “Is that why the two of you are here talking to me even when I tried to kill you?” He looked at Marius. “When I told you I would’ve killed you?” He turned to M. Javert.

“If I avoid every single person who said that they wanted me dead,” M. Javert said, his voice wry, “I wouldn’t be beside Marius right now. I wouldn’t even bother calling him Marius.”

At Duval’s wide-eyed and obvious shock, Marius shrugged. He jerked his thumb at M. Javert. “Our first meeting was at the barricades. After my friends and I captured him as a spy.”

“How…” Duval started. He shook his head. “How are you people even _real_?”

M. Javert made a movement like he had just been electrocuted. His lips twitched upwards, and he started to laugh. “I’ve heard so many people say that because of Valjean,” he said through his chuckles. “I never thought anyone would say that to _me_.”

Marius leaned in, as if imparting a secret. “The reason why I’m the one who talks the most out of all of us,” he whispered to Duval, “is because M. Jean Valjean doesn’t like the attention.”

When Duval stared at him, he shrugged again. “M. Jean Valjean – or, well, Papa, as I usually call him – taught Cosette what it means to be good,” he said, quirking his lips up into a smile. “Cosette taught me. There’s only one reason why I’m not as blind and stupid as I used to be, you know.”

“I…” Duval took a deep breath. “Jesus Christ. I… okay. Okay.”

He held out his hands. “Arrest me.”

Cocking his head, Marius blinked. “What?”

“I tried to shoot you,” Duval said, and there was a wry bitterness in his tone. “I was prepared to go to jail. So arrest me.”

Marius exchanged a glance with M. Javert. Then he turned back to Duval, raising his hand and pressing them on top of those outstretched wrists, pushing them back down. “No,” he said.

“What?”

“You’re not going to be arrested,” M. Javert said. “No charges. No attempted murder.”

Duval was staring at them again.

“If you want to help,” Marius said quietly. “Can you tell the other St. Expeditus’s Workers about the need for a peaceful revolution?” He shrugged a little. “If they don’t believe us, then maybe they will believe you.”

Rubbing his hand over his head, then across his neck, Duval’s eyes flickered between the two of them. Finally, he sighed.

“I’ll try,” he said. “I don’t know if I’ll succeed but… I’ll try.”

Perhaps that promise might have seemed half-hearted to someone else, or even insufficient given all that he and M. Javert had shared. But he could see the sincerity in those dark eyes, and so he smiled.

“That’s all I ask.

Beside him, M. Javert nodded. “That’s all,” he echoed.

He held out a hand.

Duval looked at it for a moment before he laughed, a shaky little sound of disbelief. But he reached out and grasped M. Javert’s hand, nonetheless.

“Thank you,” he said.

Marius could see that he meant that, too.

***

On 17 October, 2142, Monsieur Ewen Gisquet, Prefect of Police in Paris and Head of Law Enforcement in France, utilised the police force to send out a referendum to the entire country. The referendum consisted of two questions, and those were as follows:

> 1) Do you desire for the rule of Our Second Napoleon to end? Yes/No/Undecided.  
>  2) Do you desire for a Republic headed by the faction led by Marius and Euphrasie “Cosette” Pontmercy? Yes/No/Undecided.

Permission for the referendum was granted by Louis-Jérôme, the titular Our Second Napoleon.

The police force was mobilised by Monsieur Javert, Inspector of Paris.

On 26 December, 2142, the votes from all forty-nine million citizens of France were turned in. This is inclusive of the population currently imprisoned. 

On 29 December 2142, the votes were announced after three separate recounts. 

The statistics for the answers for the questions are as follows, rounded up to the nearest second decimal:

> 1) Do you desire for the rule of Our Second Napoleon to end? Yes: 88.73% No: 3.53%. Undecided: 7.74%.  
>  2) Do you desire for a Republic headed by the faction led by Marius and Euphrasie “Cosette” Pontmercy? Yes: 85.54% No: 5.52%. Undecided: 8.94%

***

Louis-Jérôme, Our Second Napoleon, abdicated and dissolved his position on 30 December 2142.


	9. Eight, 2143

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The King is dead. Long live the Président.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Book I Chapter 9: Eight, 2143**
> 
> **Warnings:** Explicit depiction of violence and its direct affect-effects on both people involved and people watching.

“I’ve been reading up on Napoleon lately,” Marius said.

He was setting up the projection sphere while the others of the family settled right in front of the wide cabinet – chosen for this very purpose – in the living room. Valjean, already seated in an armchair after he helped his daughter and granddaughter onto the couch, blinked.

But it was Mathieu who first spoke: “Which one?”

Marius’s dark eyes turned towards the other young man in the room before he shrugged. “The first one. The first Emperor of France. And the more I read, the more I kept thinking… there is something grand, you know, in that man’s deeds.”

“What do you mean?” Mathieu asked. Despite the low, even tone of his voice, there was an edge to it that drew Valjean’s eyes to him immediately. He settled back into his seat when he saw Azelma place a hand on her husband’s arm.

“Just that… he conquered a lot of places, and turned France into a country with a viable economy after the ruins caused by the Terror,” Marius continued. “The Terror is, by the way, what the direct aftermath of the first French Revolution was called. When the new regime began to execute and persecute every single aristocrat.”

Valjean refrained from telling him that there was no need for him to explain – the only adult who might not know what he was referencing wasn’t in the room.

“Anyway,” Marius shook his head. His eyes was fixed to his hands, and he seemed to be fiddling with the sphere far more than his usual expertise warranted. “The books I’ve been reading keep comparing him to Alexander the Great, and… well, I kept thinking that they might just have a point.”

“Who is Alexander the Great?” Azelma asked before Valjean could.

“A conqueror from Macedonia,” Mathieu said. “Conquered a lot of land and killed a lot of people before he was thirty years old.” When he noticed the eyes on him, he shrugged. 

“One of history’s greatest flaws is its love affair with conquerors,” he said.

“I’m not done,” Marius said, finally setting his hands on the cabinet. He turned around and looked straight into Mathieu’s eyes – so he had noticed the pointed tone, then. “It’s just that… Every single time I read about Napoleon, every time I couldn’t help but think that there is something grand in what he did… I remember what Combeferre used to say.”

His lips quirked up into a wry smile. “There is nothing grander than freedom.”

When Mathieu didn’t let up on his pointed gaze, Marius sighed. “I also kept thinking about how absolutely angry Enjolras would be at us taking so long with changing things in the country.”

Mathieu snorted. “So you finally got to your point.”

“You’re being unfair,” Cosette spoke up, the first time she did since the young people moved from the hallway to the living room. She shifted her infant daughter in her arms, rocking her a little before turning piercing dark eyes to Mathieu.

“Those of the barricades are abstract concepts to you, Mathieu, but they’re real to Marius.” Her gaze softened, shifting towards Azelma. “And to your wife.”

“Sometimes I can still hear Éponine laughing,” Azelma said, her voice so quiet that Valjean had to lean forward to hear her. “She would think that it’s ridiculous, the kind of theories and amount of talking that had to be done to ensure something that is just common sense. She… she would have found all this even more ridiculous than we do.”

Mathieu opened his mouth. He closed it, staring through heavy-lidded eyes at Azelma’s hand, clenched on his elbow. Then he sighed.

“Sorry,” he said. “It’s just… the name’s a sore spot for me.”

“And you’re worried,” Valjean said. When startled blue eyes turned towards him, Valjean smiled, just a little wry. “I am too.”

Javert’s absence from his side was almost a physical ache. It took Valjean a lot of effort to not feel resentful towards M. Philippe for requesting his attendance during his Receiving the Eagle ceremony.

He knew it was necessary. Louis-Jérôme might have abdicated at the end of last year, but there was still so much work to be done to change a dictatorship into a Republic; so many people to attempt to convince, especially those of the upper echelons of society. Valjean had done as much as he could, but the bulk of the work belonged to Marius, Mathieu, and M. Philippe, if only because they were the ones whose opinions would be listened to by those who still needed convincing.

And despite all of their efforts and all of the years, there were many who still saw the incoming changes as a threat. M. Philippe refused to have a retinue of National Guards – an opinion shared by Mathieu because there was just the possibility of the young man being attacked by those who were supposed to protect him – and so Javert was chosen.

Valjean clenched his hands into fists.

“I’ve been calculating,” Mathieu said after the silence had grown almost thick enough to choke. “There’s almost a forty percent chance that something horrible is going to happen.”

“That’s why M. Javert wanted all of us kept away from the Ceremony,” Cosette reminded.

“But if something goes wrong, _none_ of us will be there,” Mathieu said, seeming to not have heard. He ran a hand through his hair, and stared blankly at it as it shook. “There’s an eleven point four percent chance that whoever decided to get rid of Philippe will try to get rid of M. Javert as well. Or seven point six percent that they might try attacking Philippe as a ruse to kill M. Javert. Twelve point three that they might attack M. Javert alone, and—”

Marius stood up. He walked over to Mathieu, and smacked him across the back of his head.

“Yes,” he said blandly when Mathieu turned wide eyes up to him. “That’s why we’re not all there. So we won’t tempt them to get rid of all of us at the same time.”

“That’s not very reassuring,” Mathieu said.

Cosette stood up as well. She handed the baby to her husband and nudged him out of the way with her usual gentle force. Then, as Mathieu continued staring blankly, she dropped down to a half-kneel in front of him.

“ _No one_ is going to die,” she said firmly. “M. Javert is there to protect Philippe.”

“And the police force have surrounded the area to protect Monsieur,” Azelma chimed in.

Mathieu opened his mouth, but Valjean had heard enough. If he allowed the young man to speak, he was going to send all of them spiralling down into ‘what ifs’ before the Ceremony could even begin.

“They’re going to be fine,” he said, standing so he could reach out to squeeze Mathieu’s shoulders. “If there is a forty percent chance that something is going to happen, then there is sixty that things will go well. That’s a higher probability. So hold onto that, and have faith in Javert’s and the police’s abilities.”

He did not tell Mathieu to pray. He knew that it would not be appropriate; the young man had seen God used as a weapon too often to trust in His mercy and might any longer.

“I…” Mathieu took a deep breath. “It’s… hard. There’s so much at stake. Everything hinges on this. If something happens, then…”

“You went through the possibilities with them,” Valjean reminded gently. Javert had complained so many times about how much Mathieu repeated himself regarding the various ways things might go south. “Trust them to be able to deal with it, if you trust no one else.”

Mathieu closed his eyes. Out of the corner of Valjean’s, he noticed that Azelma had taken both of her husband’s hands into hers, squeezing lightly. Marius was, thankfully, silent.

“Okay,” Mathieu said. His lips curved up into what was surely meant to be a smile but seemed more a grimace instead. “I… I can deal with this.”

His eyes flickered to Marius. “Switch on the projector?”

Marius looked at him for a moment more before he nodded. Shifting his sleeping daughter slightly, he moved back to the projection sphere and pressed the buttons for the channel that usually showed repeats of Louis-Jérôme’s speeches.

“Welcome, and good evening,” the new anchor, a white middle-aged man with greying hair at his temples, intoned. 

“We are now awaiting the start of the Receiving the Eagle Ceremony for Charles-Louis-Philippe, le Petit-Aigle de la Maison de Napoléon, son of Our Second Napoleon Louis-Jérôme. Thank you for choosing French National News for your participation.”

“You’re not helping with my blood pressure,” Mathieu told Marius out of the corner of his mouth.

“It’s the most orthodox channel, and the most watched by people who might disagree,” Marius argued. “Know thy enemy, remember?”

“Shhh,” Cosette shushed.

All of them settled back into their seats as the news anchor started describing the referendum and abdication last year.

“There are many who have raised concerns over le Petit-Aigle. He is known to be an associate of M. Marius Pontmercy, the man most well-known for being the prosecuting attorney for the overturned cases of M. Javert, previously known as the slave 82452, and M. Jean Valjean, previously known as convict and parole breaker 24601.”

Valjean tried to not flinch.

“Not helping with _my_ blood pressure either,” Cosette said. Her voice was light and airy: the precise tone she used whenever she reached the limit of her patience.

“It’s alright,” Valjean said. In the background, the news anchor was outlining the history of the past eight years.

“No, it’s not,” Azelma said. She took a deep breath, her eyes flickering towards Valjean. “These _bastards_.”

Valjean opened his mouth, but Cosette beat him to it.

“I’d tell you not to swear in front of my daughter, but she’s not going to remember this,” she said in the same tone as before. “So: _these fucking bastards_.”

“Cosette!” Valjean yelped.

“Come now, Papa,” Cosette told him sweetly. “You heard me say much worse during Jeanne’s birth.”

“At least this time it’s towards someone who actually deserves it,” Marius muttered under his breath. “Ow! Cosette! I’m holding the baby!” 

“She’ll just think it as rocking,” Cosette smiled.

Valjean looked at all four of them. He sighed.

“Hey, _I_ didn’t say anything!” Mathieu protested.

“You’re swearing worse than the girls put together,” Valjean pointed out dryly, helplessly amused. “You’re simply not saying it out loud. Most likely because you are swearing so much that you do not have the breath to say it all out loud.”

Mathieu groaned. “I’m being attacked on all fronts,” he huffed.

“Shhh,” Azelma nudged him. She leaned forward, eyes narrowing at the hologram in front of her. Valjean turned as well.

“—by the mercies of Our Second Napoleon, M. Jean Valjean and M. Javert were not returned to their previous positions despite the disputes over the rulings. By the same mercy was the emancipation law passed three years ago despite the lack of proper procedures for its proposal.”

“If he’s going to start talking about Louis-Jérôme’s _mercy_ towards Tholomyés,” Azelma said slowly. “I am not going to be accountable for what I do.” 

Valjean started at the name. As always, his eyes flicked towards Cosette, a fist forming around his heart in fear of what she might say.

“Don’t get angry at this man,” his daughter said, as if the mention of her biological father was absolutely nothing. “He’s nothing but the mouthpiece of the bigger bastards.”

She glanced towards him, and her smile loosened the knot of his chest. He nodded, lips curling up into an uncertain smile.

Thankfully for their combined blood pressures, the news anchor had moved on from giving background of the history of the revolution to the Ceremony itself. He gave a brief introduction to the Ceremony – something all of them already knew – before the camera switched to a panoramic view of the Castle Fontainebleau. It focused on the audience seated in makeshift chairs right at the stage built just beyond the gates.

It lingered on one face in particular: M. de Courfeyrac. His face was blank.

“Wait a minute,” Marius said. He was leaning forward, eyes narrowing. “That woman…”

“There were a few women,” Mathieu pointed out, seemingly unable to help himself.

“Blond hair, forties or fifties, front row,” Marius said impatiently. “She… I don’t know, I’m not sure, but… I think she might be Enjolras’s mother.”

“What?” Azelma asked.

The camera went back to the audience, and the news anchor started to list them out. There were the old families, of course, those whose ancestors had been rulers of the separate regions of France during the Civil War. There were also the Napoleon regime’s historic supporters: M. Gillenormand was included along with Monsier le Président of the Cour de Cassation.

Cosette took her daughter out of her husband’s hands when he started to twitch from head to toe.

“… Lucille Enjolras, wife of M. Édouard Enjolras, who is not present today. Madame Enjolras’s son Lucien died nine years ago during the June Riots....”

“Hah!” Marius said, pointing at the screen. “ _Knew it_.”

“What is she doing there?” Valjean asked the question that they were all surely thinking about.

Marius squinted at the screen again, but the focus had already shifted to someone else. “I have no idea,” he said finally, running a hand through his hair. “Combeferre or Courfeyrac would know, but I’ve never been close to Enjolras.”

“How did you recognise her, then?” Valjean asked.

“The face,” Marius said. He turned and gave Valjean a wry smile. “It took me a while to realise that she was actually a woman, and much older than Enjolras would be if he were alive. Because her face is almost exactly like his.”

Valjean searched his mind for some memory of that particular boy. He was the leader; surely he would have made an impression? But he recalled nothing.

Not for the first time, he mourned the fact that he was so focused on Marius during the barricades that he practically didn’t look at anyone else. Those boys deserved to be more than being vague shadows in his memory.

“I honestly can’t figure out what she’s doing there,” Marius was saying, sounding frustrated. “I’ve never seen her at any of our rallies. She’d never said _anything_ in the past nine years.”

“Well, we’ll find out once the ceremony starts,” Mathieu said. “No point thinking too much about it.”

When Marius glared at him, Mathieu gave him a wide, insincere smile. Valjean fought down the urge to laugh. They both were accomplished men in their thirties, practically leaders of the country, and here they were, acting like children.

“The ceremony’s starting,” Azelma rolled her eyes. “So kindly shut up.”

“Yes, dear,” Mathieu drawled, and _‘oof’ed_ when his wife jabbed him in the ribs.

Valjean turned back to the screen just in time to see M. Philippe step out of the front door of Fontainebleau. He was dressed in full military regalia, the deep blue of the uniform practically disappearing beneath the medals that decorated his chest. Despite their weight, surely both physical and symbolic, M. Philippe’s shoulders were straight.

Hovering cameras followed him as he curved around to the garden, every step deliberate and echoed by Javert walking three steps beside and two behind him. Javert’s face was blank, staring straight forward, and his hands stiff-straight by his side. Valjean tried to not think about what that might mean, or what might have caused it.

A strange, thick hush fell over the living room. 

Perhaps it was the solemnity of the occasion being shown, or perhaps it was the strangeness of seeing M. Philippe dressed and acting in his position as heir when they had seen him as merely a man for more than two years. Valjean did not know. He knew only that the sight in front of him just seemed _wrong_.

“Philippe gambled the freedom of all of us to get the referendum,” Mathieu said suddenly, the sound of his voice shattering the silence. “M. Javert’s too.”

His hand twined with Azelma’s, practically holding onto her for support as he sighed. “He didn’t know how to tell all of you this.”

“He didn’t have to.”

It took Valjean a moment to realise that the voice that spoke was his own. He ducked his head instinctively as all eyes in the room turned towards him, fidgeting with his fingers for a moment.

“We’re less important than the freedom of the country,” he continued quietly. “If that was what needed to be done…”

“That’s not what he was afraid of,” Mathieu shook his head. He closed his eyes. “Louis-Jérôme shouldn’t have believed that he could gamble away the freedom of others without asking them first. Philippe shouldn’t have the right to do that.”

“But nothing would have happened if he hadn’t do what he did,” Valjean argued. “It was… We trust him, Mathieu. We trust _in_ him.”

Mathieu opened his mouth. Before a word could escape, Cosette reached over and squeezed his other hand.

“We’re not fighting for a world in which everyone could rule themselves,” she said once he was looking at her. “We’re fighting for a world in which we can _choose_ who we want to lead us. The one person who we can put our trust in to place gambles on our freedoms.”

She hesitated. “On our lives.”

Valjean’s hands clenched together, and his chest ached with a sudden, twisting sharpness. He knew that if any of them were arrested, they would be charged with treason.

“You’d trust the life of your daughter to Philippe?” Mathieu asked, eyes and voice blank.

Cosette smiled. “We’re trusting the future in his hands,” she said. “Just like the people who follow us trust the future in ours. What is the future, after all, than the lives of children? Not just Jeanne, but… everyone’s.”

Mathieu sucked in a deep breath. His eyes fell shut. “It’s a terrible burden to carry,” he said.

“It is,” Valjean said, lips quirking upwards. “But it is one that M. Philippe recognises, and one we trust him to carry well. Better than anyone else.”

Definitely better than himself. Despite his strength, despite the weight of burdens that he had carried throughout his life, Valjean still felt stifled by the faith that so many had in him. No matter how much he tried, there were still so many he could not reach, so many he knew he disappointed. There were moments when he still needed Javert’s reminders that it was understandable for him to take time for himself.

“I…” Mathieu licked his lips, and nodded. “I’ll tell him that.” His eyes flicked between Cosette, the baby, and Valjean himself. “It’ll mean a lot more to him coming from you than from me.”

His lips curved up into a wryly-humoured smile. “I’ve been putting faith in him for too long, for it to have much meaning left.”

“It’s not a one-way street,” Azelma said. She turned towards her husband, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek. “He’s putting faith in us, in everyone, to choose the right thing.”

She was still smiling, a little hesitant at the edges, when she pulled back. “It’s not such a terrible thing to have faith.”

Closing his eyes, Mathieu nodded. He dropped his head forward, his forehead touching Azelma’s. She held him close, breathing with him.

Valjean looked away. He was gratified that two such reserved people trusted him – them – enough to act this way, but the intimacy was almost too much. He clenched his hands together even more tightly, trying to relieve the ache that had settled into those old bones.

On the screen, the camera was now following Louis-Jérôme as he curved around the other side of the garden to reach the stage at the centre. His shoulders were straight to the point of tenseness, his hands held together behind his back. The medals hanging off of his uniform caught the early afternoon sunlight and blazed with light. When he reached the stage, every step he took upwards was so deliberate that they seemed to echo without sound.

He looked like a broken man trying desperately to hold onto a façade of wholeness. Valjean’s chest ached for him.

“The Archbishop of Notre Dame will now present Our Second Napoleon with the Eagle,” the news anchor intoned.

A man dressed in the heavy white robes of service stood up from his seat amidst the audience. In his hand he held a black sceptre topped with a wreath with four laurel leaves at the side. It was, if Valjean’s reading was correct, a reference towards the ancient Roman Emperors’ crowns.

Seated on top of the wreath, with its wings outstretched to the fullest extent, was the grand eagle – the sign of the Napoleon regime itself. 

The eagle, the wreath, and the laurel leaves glittered gold.

“Real gold,” Mathieu murmured. “If it’s melted down and sold, it would pay for the education of at least a hundred for three years. If we sell it as is, it would pay for a thousand.”

Azelma squeezed his hand.

Having reached centerstage, the Archbishop bowed towards Louis-Jérôme, who nodded back. As everyone watched, he turned the sceptre until it laid flat on both hands, and presented it to the man who had once been the ruler of the country.

Louis-Jérôme took the sceptre. For the first time since he stepped out through the door, his head tipped downwards. Long moments passed as he ran his hand over the staff, then every engraved curve and edge of the head.

“He’s not going to change his mind, is he?” Marius asked.

Valjean shook his head. “Let him have the last moment with the thing that defined his life,” he said quietly. 

He knew that the young people who were turning to him with startled glances, but he kept his eyes fixed upon the screen. Somehow, he knew what he said was true.

This man had made the laws that had kept him imprisoned and then on the run for so many years; this was a man he’d never met. But what did any of that matter when he could see, like an overlaid image, the broken, half-shattered pieces of his being?

Louis-Jérôme’s eyes closed. Then he straightened even further. When he turned around, the sunlight caught the wrinkles on the sides of his mouth and eyes, deepening the shadows even further.

He looked so terribly tired, so terribly sad.

As Louis-Jérôme turned, his son did as well. M. Philippe’s hands went beneath his father’s as the sceptre was held out to him, and he lifted the wood.

Then he turned towards the audience. Valjean knew, from Mathieu, that the sceptre was meant to be raised with one hand. In triumph, in acceptance.

M. Philippe dropped it. 

Metal and polished wood clattered onto the ground. The collective indrawn breaths of every single member of the audience were a sudden gale.

“Forty percent, forty percent,” Mathieu was chanting under his breath.

Digging into his pocket, M. Philippe withdrew a folded piece of cloth. He gripped it by its edges, and unfurled it.

For the first time in over a century, France’s tricolour appeared in front of her people.

“My people,” M. Philippe called. “Do you remember this song?”

He took a deep breath.

” _Forty percent_.”

“O Liberty,” M. Philippe sang out, his voice sweet and clear, cutting through the early afternoon air. “Can man resign thee, once having felt thy generous flame? Can dungeons, bolts or bars confine thee, or whips thy noble spirit tame?”

For the first time in over a century, _La Marseillaise_ was heard by the people it was composed for.

Javert suddenly twitched. His eyes, once focused on M. Philippe, turned towards something further away.

“ _Forty percent_.” Mathieu’s voice shook.

“GET DOWN!”

Both M. Philippe and Louis-Jérôme dropped suddenly, shoved down to the ground by Javert’s hands. The Archbishop ducked.

Behind them, the main door of Fontainebleau exploded. Shattered stone, dust, and wood sprayed outwards.

Everyone seemed frozen.

“Can dungeons! Bolts or bars! Or whips!” M. Philippe was still singing, his voice strained, a little muffled, but still clear despite the screams. “Thy noble spirit tame!”

His hand stuck out from where it was below Javert’s arm. The tricolour waved.

“Sniper’s in the forest!” Javert was yelling into his earpiece, one hand to his ear. His other dragged Louis-Jérôme back to his feet. The man was looking between his arm and Javert’s hand, lips parted, but Javert was already grabbing M. Philippe.

“Don’t let the bastard get away,” he growled, his voice practically mangled. 

His eyes darted towards M. Philippe. “Keep singing,” he ordered, and began to drag father and son off of the stage. He jerked his head towards the Archbishop, who scrambled after him.

While Louis-Jérôme’s eyes darted between his son and Javert, M. Philippe nodded, he held the tricolour up high even as he stumbled off of the stage.

“Too long the world has wept,” he continued, his breathing half-destroying the tune. But his voice did not shake, and remained steady. “Bewailing that falsehood’s dagger tyrants wield! But freedom is our sword and shield!”

He stopped when Javert shoved him and his father forward hard. Both of them fell onto their knees. The Archbishop tripped when his hand was grabbed. All three of their faces went into the dirt as Javert went after them, covering them all with as much of his arms and body as he could

The stage went the same way as the door. Wood shattered, and began to catch on fire.

This time, the shot seemed to have awakened the audience. Panic spread faster than the flames, everyone jumping to their feet and beginning to run.

“And all their arts are unravelling!” M. Philippe screamed out, his voice piercing through the rising shouts of his people. “To arms, to arms, ye brave!”

He shoved Javert aside, scrambling to his feet. He grabbed the nearest chair he could, standing up on it, still holding up the flag.

“To arms, to arms, ye brave! To _arms_!”

“DUCK!” Javert bellowed, and M. Philippe did – barely seconds before another explosion rocked the gardens of Fontainebleau.

But the damage had already been done: the people were slowing, calming down. They were looking towards M. Philippe, who held onto the back of the flimsy makeshift chair as he stood up again. He was not shaking.

“We will not yield, we will not be cowed,” he shouted, holding up the tricolour high. “Kill me and another will take my place, stronger and fiercer. Until the land is _free_!”

His eyes scanned the crowds and looked straight into the various floating cameras that hovered around him. The blue blazed brighter than the fire raging barely feet behind him.

“To arms, to arms, ye brave!” he repeated, shaking the flag in his hands. “ _To arms_ , and let us never be afraid!”

Slowly, so terribly slowly, people began to move. They did not look at each other as they began to walk towards M. Phillipe. Valjean watched as M. Gillenormand tripped, and was steadied on both sides by M. de Courfeyrac and Mme. Enjolras. People started reaching out, leaning on each other to keep a steady pace. 

They congregated around M. Philippe’s chair. He stared down to them – guards, reporters, all – before he looked at the cameras.

“We are not afraid,” he said. His hair was falling all over his eyes, and there was dust covering him almost head to toe. The fire behind him cast dark shadows on his form.

But he had never looked brighter than he did at this very moment.

He took a deep breath. “To arms, to arms, ye brave!” he sang. “The avenging sword unsheathed! March on, march on! All hearts resolv’d, on victory or death!”

At the edge of the camera, Javert was helping both Louis-Jérôme and the Archbishop to their feet. He brushed over both of their shoulders brusquely before taking a look at them both. He seemed to find what he was looking for, because he nodded and returned to M. Philippe’s side.

The crowd started to sing. Halting and hesitating, off-tune, but their voices clear as they relearned and reclaimed the words they had forgotten and had been kept away from them. Their eyes darted towards each other.

They finished three repetitions of the chorus before Javert tilted his head, brows furrowing as he cocked his head to the side. His hand came up to the earpiece before he reached up, tugging M. Philippe down.

M. Philippe stopped mid-word. He blinked, a little confused, before Javert pulled at him even more impatiently. He leaned in as Javert whispered into his ear.

“The sniper has been caught!” he announced. “We stood our ground today, my people. We stood our ground!”

Before any sign of celebration could ensue, Javert raised his voice: “Now we have to get out of here.”

“Please move, my people,” M. Philippe looked at them. His smile was exhausted and exhilarated both, and his eyes almost fever-bright. “Calmly, and let’s take care of each other.”

The cameras followed them as they started walking, very swiftly, out of the castle. In the background, the firefighting helicopters were moving in, trying to save whatever that was left of the Castle.

Valjean breathed. His hand pressed against his chest. “I’m too old for this,” he muttered under his breath.

He looked at the living room. Mathieu and Azelma were clutching onto each other, their eyes wide. Mathieu’s teeth were chattering, and his knuckles were white. Cosette’s hand was digging into Marius’s arm, and Marius was gripping onto her dress. Their daughter was squashed between them in a position that was surely uncomfortable for her.

Sure enough, Jeanne woke up, and started screaming. 

It seemed to break the spell cast over the four young people. Their chests started moving again, arrhythmic. Cosette was turning to her daughter, staring blankly at the baby.

Standing up, Valjean moved over to her. He reached out his hands. “Give her to me,” he said quietly.

Cosette deposited the baby in his arms with blank eyes that seemed to see right through him to the screen. Valjean took Jeanne, securely balancing her on one arm and bouncing her a little. His other hand squeezed Cosette’s shoulder.

“That was not a bullet,” Marius said suddenly. He ran both hands through his hair, then down his face. “Sniper, he said. That was not a sniper. That was _not a bullet_.”

“Might be a rocket launcher,” Mathieu said, his voice dull. He hadn’t moved.

Valjean looked at the two of them, and to the women as well. He sighed, lifting his hand off of Cosette’s shoulder to run it over his head.

Then he backhanded Marius across the face.

“Papa,” Marius said, startled, but Valjean ignored him. He strode the three steps needed towards Mathieu, and did the same to him.

He stepped backwards and gave all of them a level glance.

“Get a grip,” he told them. He tried to keep his voice low, but the steel wove itself into it anyway. “What happened was… unexpected, but we cannot allow that make us afraid.”

They stared dumbly at him.

“But M. Jean,” Azelma found her voice first. “Monsieur was… he was…”

“Right in the line of fire,” he finished for her. He continued to bounce Jeanne on his arm, trying to get her to calm, trying to make sure he remained calm. “I know.”

Cosette buried her face into Marius’s shoulder. As Valjean watched, she took a couple of deep, shaking breaths. Her hand clenched even tighter on Marius’s arm, practically clinging onto him, before she pulled back and faced her father again.

“We are…” she hesitated. “I’m okay. I’m… I’m okay.”

“Philippe,” Mathieu said. He shook his head hard twice before stilling again. He stared at his shaking hands. “Philippe. My God. _Philippe_.”

“Is alive,” Valjean said. “And he brought over the most powerful of the country to his side in one fell stroke.”

Mathieu shook his head again. “No, he…He could’ve _died_!” 

The word was wrenched out of him even more violently than he stood, knocking the coffee table over. He trembled from head to toe.

“He’s… he’s the only family… _they_ are the only remnant of my family…” he pointed towards the screen. “All of them. They could have died. They could’ve died right there and I couldn’t… we couldn’t…”

“I know,” Valjean said, fixing his gaze on Mathieu. He didn’t take a step further, instead curving his lips up to a wry smile.

“Do you think that I could have lived with myself if I had to watch Javert being blown apart without being able to do anything about it?”

Four pairs of eyes turned towards him. Valjean didn’t meet them, looking down to Jeanne, bouncing her a little more and wiping away the tears falling from her wide, dark eyes. Poor little thing: she was far too young to understand what was going on, and yet here she was, right in the centre of it.

He lifted her up a little and pressed a kiss on her forehead. She hiccupped a little, and her crying eased off.

When Mathieu dropped back down to the couch, Valjean didn’t see it – he only heard it.

“Someone important to me was right there too,” Azelma said, her voice small. “If Monsieur hadn’t seen what was going on, he could have… They could have…” She trailed off.

The sound of her muffled sobs echoed in the room.

“Shhh,” Mathieu murmured, drawing her close to him. His eyes were so wide and so blank, and he seemed to be patting his wife’s hair by instinct instead of purpose. “It’s okay… It’s okay.”

Valjean looked at Cosette and Marius. Marius’s eyes were unfocused again, and he was lying flat on the couch, his head on Cosette’s lap. Cosette’s fingers were running through his hair, slowly.

Then a phone started to ring. Valjean started, and it took him a couple of seconds before he recognised that it was his own.

Crossing the room, he picked up the thing from where it was lying on the armchair from where it fell out of his pocket. “It’s Javert,” he announced.

Azelma looked up.

Accepting the call, Valjean put him on speaker phone.

“Did anyone try to attack the house?” Javert asked. He sounded harried.

“No,” Valjean said. He gave Jeanne a finger to suck on so she would not be tempted to cry again. “We’re all okay.”

“Good,” Javert heaved a sigh. Valjean could almost see him drag his hand through his hair. “We’re all okay, by the way.”

He looked at the screen. It was still focused on the firefighters trying to put out the roaring flames threatening to utterly consume the Castle. The news anchor was saying something that Valjean’s mind wasn’t capable of registering.

“We figured that,” he said. “You got them all out of here.”

Javert snorted. “M. Philippe did,” he protested. “All I did was manhandling people I’m not supposed to manhandle.”

There was a pause. “Hold on.” Sounds of quiet scuffling replaced his voice.

“Mathieu!” M. Philippe’s voice came on the line. His brother jerked as if he had been electrocuted. “I’m okay! Stop worrying! Father’s okay too! Most people are unhurt, just a couple of cases of smoke inhalation.” 

“Shut up,” Mathieu said. “Philippe, Christ, please shut up.”

M. Philippe shut up. Valjean’s lips twitched; it was almost funny how three explosive gunshots could not do what Mathieu’s tightly-wrung voice could.

“You could’ve died,” Mathieu said. He lifted his head and wiped at his eyes. “You could’ve _died_ , Philippe.”

“I’m not dead,” M. Philippe said. His voice gentled. “We’re not dead. None of us are. We’re all okay.”

“But,” Mathieu started.

“Marius!” M. Philippe called. Marius sat up so suddenly that he almost smacked his face into Cosette’s chin.

“Your grandfather’s okay! There’s just minor smoke inhalation, which is being treated now. M. de Courfeyrac and Mme. Enjolras are okay too. They want to talk to you later. Like, couple of weeks later.”

“Thank you,” Marius said. The words sounded thick on his tongue. He shook his head. “God, _thank you_.”

“I should thank them,” M. Philippe laughed. “They helped people to stop panicking the moment we got out of the fire’s range. And, man, you should’ve seen how Mme. Enjolras is keeping the press away right now!”

Valjean looked at the screen. Oh. So that was why.

“M. Philippe,” Cosette said quietly. “Are you really okay?”

There was the sound of scuffling, and an indignant yelp.

“He’s running on adrenaline, that’s what he is,” Javert said, his voice entirely dry. “But he’s alive and unhurt. No smoke inhalation either – we got that checked out too.”

Mathieu made an indescribable sound, and buried his face into Azelma’s hair. His shoulders shook.

“Javert,” Valjean said. He swallowed. “Are you…”

“I’m fine,” Javert said. There was a thread of amusement in his voice that eased the terrible knot in Valjean’s chest. “This is my bread and butter, remember?”

He sighed. “I’m honestly more afraid about the repercussions of shoving around the current ruler, the ex-ruler, and the Archbishop in front of a thousand cameras than what actually happened.”

“You were doing your duty,” Valjean said. His lips twitched upwards.

“Eh,” Javert grunted. “Anyway, remind me to possibly kill Delattre slowly for getting to the sniper so late.”

“It’s not his fault,” Valjean said, but he was interrupted by Mathieu’s voice.

“That was _not_ a fucking _sniper_. That was a bastard with a _grenade launcher._ ”

“Yeah, it was,” Javert said, and the amusement had returned to his voice. “It was a sniper. Rifle with explosive rounds. A grenade would have literally fallen onto the ground. A grenade launcher would have been _smart_.”

There was another scuffle, and a far-off, “Monsieur, you’re _not helping_!”

“What M. Javert is trying to _say_ ,” M. Philippe said hurriedly. “It’s that we’re totally okay and nothing happened to us, and stop worrying!”

Mathieu made a sound. Valjean stared at him for a moment before he realised that it was actually laughter, high-pitched and tremulous.

“Monsieur,” Mathieu gasped out. “Monsieur, how do you remain so calm?” His eyes darted to Valjean. “How do you _both_ remain so calm?”

“It’s my job,” Javert grunted down the line, evidently having wrestled the phone back from M. Philippe. “Look, if the police officer panics, _everyone_ panics. Do you know what a crowd does when the guy shouting ‘Don’t panic!’ sounds like he’s losing his mind?”

“Once…” Marius started. He was leaning on Cosette again, their fingers tangled once more. “Once… M. Javert had something like five or six guns trained to his face, and all he did was to taunt the people holding those guns. _I denounce your people’s court_ , he says, right after they told him that they would kill him.”

Javert snorted. “My _job_ ,” he said impatiently. “Valjean, tell them about that time I held a gun to your face and you still had the presence of mind to keep arguing with me.”

Despite the four pairs of horrified eyes turned to him, Valjean burst out laughing. “I was really distracted by how angry I was at the time.”

“And then you ducked under my gun and punched me in the face hard enough to knock me out,” Javert said, sounding just as amused. “Talk about presence of mind.”

“Papa, M. Javert,” Cosette said. She was smiling – a little shaky, but definitely smiling. “You both need to tell us about that incident.”

“Later,” Valjean said automatically. After a moment, he realised that he _meant_ that: it was not a diversionary tactic, but an actual promise.

“Just don’t be surprised by how much of an asshole I was,” Javert said. Though his voice was even, Valjean could hear the uncertain edge in it.

“You’re better now,” he said firmly. 

“Nothing will make me think less of you, Monsieur,” Azelma added softly. She had Mathieu leaning on her shoulder, and was slowly stroking through his hair.

“Don’t make that judgment so fast,” Javert sighed. Before he could say another word, there was yet another scuffle.

“Anyway, we’re okay,” M. Philippe repeated again. “And now I see that Mme. Enjolras can’t hold back the press any longer, so we need to go talk to them.”

“Remember to not say anything stupid,” Mathieu said.

M. Philippe laughed, light and airy. “Only the stupid things that’ll help our cause,” he said, and hung up.

Valjean looked at the four of them in the living room. They seemed a great deal calmer, though there were still tension writ in every inch of their bodies and deep shadows in their eyes. Marius met his gaze, and held out his arms.

Walking towards him, Valjean dropped down so he could look the young man in the eye. “Are you sure you’re alright?” he asked. Marius was the one whom he worried most for, because he still had nightmares about gunshots and deaths.

Marius’s smile was shaky, but sincere. “I’m okay, Papa,” he said. When Cosette leaned in to kiss his cheek, he turned around and returned the kiss to her hair. “Give me Jeanne?”

The baby was still awake, her dark eyes roving and her cheeks hollowing around Valjean’s finger. Valjean slipped it out of her mouth, and she flailed a little in his arms at the loss, tiny fists waving in the air. He steadied her before transferring her to her father.

Holding Jeanne close, Marius closed his eyes. He leaned in and kissed the baby’s hair, taking in a long, deep breath of her milky scent. Valjean reached out, gripping Marius’s shoulder tightly to help steady him for a moment more before he looked at Cosette.

His daughter’s face was still ashen was she looked to him. She tried to smile, but Valjean shook his head, leaning in and kissing her brow. She trembled, and ripped off her glasses, dropping them onto the chair.

Then her arms came around him, holding on tightly. Valjean stood, using his strength to lift Cosette from her seat.

She held onto him like she had when she was but eight-years-old and thrust into a sudden world of light which she did not understand. Her face buried into his shoulder, hands clenching around his shirt, knuckles digging into his back. Valjean simply held her close, rubbing tiny circles around her shoulderblades until he could feel her breathing even out.

“It’s alright,” he murmured into her ear. “We’re all safe. We’re alright.”

“Papa,” she choked out. 

“Have faith, my girl,” he said, stroking through her hair. “Everything will be just fine. You won’t lose anyone, not today. Alright?”

Nodding, she held onto him a little tighter. Valjean stroked her hair, then her back, letting her tremble in his arms for as long as she needed to.

Eventually, she pulled away, wiping at her tears. She smiled at him, and Valjean kissed her brow again even as he picked up her glasses and put them back on for her.

“Alright?”

She nodded. “I’m okay,” she whispered. She dropped down heavily onto the couch, leaning against Marius’s arm. Her eyes fell back closed as her husband took her hand, kissing the knuckles.

Valjean went back to his armchair, and held on tightly to Cosette’s warmth and the wry humour in Javert’s voice.

“God, we’re a mess,” Mathieu said. He had turned fully to face Azelma, and she was now half in his lap, leaning against him as he did the same with her.

“A lot happened,” Valjean said. “You don’t have to be put together all the time, Mathieu.”

Mathieu’s hands held onto Azelma’s for a moment more before they looked at each other. After a moment, they turned back to Valjean, and nodded.

When they shifted their attention back to the screen, the scene had changed to the outskirts of the town of Fontainebleau. There were ambulances scattered in the background, and the firefighting helicopters were still hovering in the air. People were giving and receiving medical aid: Valjean could see Mme. Enjolras’s lips move as her blood pressure was taken.

Right in the centre of the screen was M. Philippe. His military jacket with its medals was gone – he was dressed only in a pair of trousers and a white shirt, both covered in dust. There was dust even on his hair and eyelashes.

“Will you be giving M. Javert here a reward for his actions, sir?” a reporter asked.

M. Philippe shook his head. “I tried, but...” he turned around. “M. Javert, will you repeat to them what you said to me?”

Javert strode forward from where he was standing two steps behind M. Philippe. His face was blank again, and his arms straight by his side. The tension that was there barely an hour ago was, however, gone. His leather coat was also missing, and his white shirt was as grey as M. Philippe’s.

“There is no need for a reward,” he said, eyes fixed onto the hovering cameras in front of him. “Kings and Emperors give rewards to those who save their lives, elevating their stations. But M. Philippe is not a King or an Emperor, and I was only doing my duty.”

“If you are not a King and Emperor, sir,” another reporter started, clearly picking up on the bait Javert had thrown, “Then what are you?”

“What are your plans for the country?” the first reporter chimed in.

M. Philippe smiled. He chuckled. . “If all goes well, my people, there will be elections in the next four months. Let us march forward towards a new age together. All of us.” 

Before the reporters could ask any more questions, he took three steps back. As if rehearsed – which it was – Javert moved out of the way.

“I believe the words of four hundred years ago will serve me well now,” he said.

He raised the tricolour again. “Vive la République! Vive la France!”

“Twenty years,” Mathieu said, his eyes fixed on the screen. “I never thought we’d see this day.”

M. Philippe was facing the people now, holding the flag high as he repeated those words.   
_  
Vive la République! Vive la France!_

Valjean smiled. “Neither did I,” he said.

As the people began to pick up the chant, the fire was slowly dying. Valjean wondered if the sceptre of the Eagle could be saved.

He wondered if anyone would remember, and if it would ever matter again. 

No, it still would. Mathieu had said that it was worth a hundred or a thousand students being put through school for three years.

Was that not more valuable in this new age?

***

On 17 August 2143, Charles-Louis-Philippe was sworn in as the first Président of the Sixth French Republic.

The date is marked in history as the official collapse of the Napoleon regime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that is the end of the revolution arc. There is still the aftermath, of course, because a society does not get fixed so easily. But the parts about ‘fighting for a better world’ has ended, and the parts about ‘making sure that better world does materialise’ is incoming. To quote _Hamilton_ : “Winning is easier, young man; governing’s harder.”
> 
> These past few chapters have been insane rollercoasters. I’d say that I’m sorry but I’m not really. Just rest assured that I’m just as tense, if not more, as I’m writing/typing as you were reading.


	10. Nine, 2144

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone has their story. History must be made to remember.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> **_Book II:_ governance**  
>  **Chapter 10:** **Nine, 2144**
> 
> **Warnings:** Major focus here is on OCs that everyone probably thinks that I’ve forgotten entirely. I forget nothing. And kid OC. This is honestly primarily worldbuilding and an inching towards the endgame shown in Epilogue 2 of _all sinners crawl_.

The damage to the Castle Fontainebleau wasn’t terribly great despite the fire, but Philippe decided that the seat of the new government should be somewhere else anyway. There needed to be the new start, he told his people earnestly.

Sometimes Mathieu wondered just how many actually bought that half-truth, or if they realised that Philippe just couldn’t take that Castle away from his father. Or even work in that place anymore.

So they moved to a place that wasn’t precisely new, but had been in ruins ever since the beginning of the civil wars so long ago.

Palais Bourbon once had had a beautifully carved Roman portico right at its entrance, but now only the ruins and stones remained. The chandeliers, paintings, and rich carpets inside were long destroyed, and no one had mentioned using the new Republic’s money to replace them. Instead, Philippe ordered the installation of plain electrical lights and sturdy metal-and-wood desks and chairs. There were no carpets, just mahogany floorboards cleaned only once every three days or so and rarely polished, chosen for insulation. The rooftop glimmered green with sun panels spread all over it. 

Even the gardens – so long the sign of aristocracy in France – weren’t anything particularly special. Metal windmills occupied every inch that they could occupy, and the rest was planted with herbs and flowers chosen by M. Jean.

The only opulent thing that remained was the stone: they imported more from the mines at the coastal areas to patch up the areas where it was missing. Mathieu insisted on stone, because it saved having to pay for air-conditioning, and the extraneous electricity from the sun panels could then be redirected to the Paris grid.

When the media was first allowed into the new Palais, many reporters remarked that the name had become a misnomer – it was nothing more than building where work and discussions took place. There was nothing grand about it.

Precisely Philippe and Mathieu’s point. Governance had become far too grandiose, too Emperor- and King-like during the years of the Napoleon regime. It was work, it was service, and where they did those things should reflect it. If, in the future, the economy improved and no one was starving any longer, then they would use the surplus money to pretty up the Palais. 

Only if there was nothing else more important to be done, of course.

Both of them, Président and Ministère de l’Éducation nationale, were standing outside the Palais, staring at it. Mathieu slanted a glance towards Philippe, wondering if his brother dragged him here during this sweltering summer weekend just to stare at their new building.

“You know, it’s a lot easier to make people understand the symbolism of a building when you actually tell them that there is a symbol,” Philippe said, lips quirking up at the side.

Mathieu rolled his eyes. “This place is a lot more important than my school,” he said dryly. “I only needed one person to figure it out.” Though he still wasn’t sure if Louis-Jérôme had, much less what he thought of it. “All others who did were just bonuses, really.”

“Yeah?” Philippe raised an eyebrow. “And are you going to tear down Hôtel de Rochechouart as well just to make a statement too?”

At the name of the historical headquarters of the Ministry of Education, Mathieu winced. The place had fallen into disuse for over a century, and was in an even worse shape than Palais Bourbon. 

Still, he shook his head. “There’s no point in me having separate headquarters until I actually establish a proper education system,” he said. “And that’s not going to happen for years yet.”

“Don’t tell me that you don’t already have plans drawn up.”

“I do,” Mathieu admitted. “But I made them without full information of what was going on and what I could do.” He’d had access to more resources than most, but no one’d had everything like Louis-Jérôme did. “They’re more like vague structures than actual plans, so I’ll have to re-examine and probably rework them entirely.”

He hesitated. “One thing I do know is that we can’t rely on convents and monasteries for public education. There needs to be a public school system, but how that’s going to be accomplished with the amount of money we have…” He shook his head. “And the syllabus. Plus we need to have a series of schools for adult education as well, because we can’t let the changes positively affect only the newest generations, and there needs to be a syllabus for that too.”

The stream of words stopped when Philippe grabbed him by the arm and started dragging him towards the door of the Palais. It was a set of glass doors, set and half-hidden behind the ruins of the Roman portico. Mathieu absentmindedly walked over the broken stones that Philippe insisted should not be cleared.

“We cannot forget the civil wars,” Philippe had said. “This will be a good reminder to our leaders of the future.”

“What, when they break their necks tripping?” Mathieu had argued, but he gave up after a while, because, really, _he_ was the historian, so there was no reason why he would argue against having constant reminders of history.

Well, his train of thought was truly broken by the time they stepped into the cooler air of the building.

“Just make sure that you spend time with your wife and son, okay?” Philippe was telling him.

Mathieu rolled his eyes. “Azelma is just as busy,” he said, probably needlessly. Philippe knew as well as he did that Azelma had her hands full with the healthcare reforms – or, well, healthcare formations, because there wasn’t anything for her to _re_ form. Mathieu tried to argue that she needed to take it easier during her pregnancy, but Azelma had only rolled her eyes and said that if Cosette could go through a revolution while pregnant, she could help build a country doing the same.

Honestly, he had no argument against that.

“Okay, both of you need to spend time with your kid,” Philippe rolled his eyes. “Or kids.”

“I’ll just bring him here once he’s born,” Mathieu shrugged. “Azelma can do the same to her workplace.”

“Are you going to start brainwashing him into your ideals the moment he’s born?”

“He’s already a goner,” Mathieu said, trying to stifle the twitching of his lips. “He’s going to be named after you, remember?”

Philippe stopped in his tracks. He turned, very slowly, and stared at Mathieu. Mathieu stared back.

“I didn’t tell you that?” he blinked.

“No,” Philippe said, very slowly. “Please tell me that you’re not burdening your son with the name Charles-Louis-Philippe. It’s too much of a mouthful.”

“I’m not,” Mathieu said. This time, he didn’t even bother to hide his laughter. He shoved his hands into his pockets, grinning. “His second name will be Philippe. Just Philippe.”

“Why are you copying Marius’s stupid idea of giving children the names of people they know,” Philippe said. It wasn’t even a question.

Mathieu shrugged. “Because second names mean that they know that they have someone they’re named after, which means that they have someone they can look up to.” His grin widened. “At least I’m not doing the tasteless thing about naming people after the dead.”

Philippe slapped a hand over his face. “But why _me_?” He strode forward, grabbing Mathieu’s face and squishing his cheeks together.

“Do you know _how many people_ are already naming their children after me?” he practically shouted, shaking Mathieu’s head back and forth. “Some of them even went the full gauntlet of all three names! There are going to be so many Philippes in the new generation! Do you know how embarrassing that is?!”

“I can’t really talk like this,” Mathieu tried to say. It came out as a garbled mess.

“Why do you have to betray me like this?!” Philippe continued shaking him.

Mathieu took a deep breath through his nose. Then he raised his hand and smacked it right into Philippe’s face, shoving him backwards. Philippe flailed his arms around exaggeratedly, nearly tripping over his own feet.

If only the people could see their esteemed Président now. Mathieu’s lips twitched.

Before Philippe could regain his footing, Mathieu grabbed him by his shoulders. Dragging his brother close, he kissed both cheeks.

“You were my best man during my wedding,” he said, “and my first child is being named after you. If it turned out to be a girl despite the DNA test, her second name will be Philippa. Azelma and I both agreed. Deal with it.”

Philippe stared at him. He stuck his lip out. “But there are _so many_ already, Mathieu,” he whined. “It’s so embarrassing!”

“If it’s any consolation,” Mathieu said dryly, “there’s going to be just as many boys with ‘Marius’ and ‘Valjean’ as their first names. And probably as many girls with ‘Cosette’.”

“Only one of those is an actual first name,” Philippe said, blinking rapidly. “And it means ‘male’.”

“Yours mean ‘lover of horses,” Mathieu pointed out. “Which is worse.”

“So why are you giving your son that name?!” Philippe yelled loud enough for it to echo down the hallway.

Mathieu shoved his hand over his face again. “Because I didn’t choose it for its meaning,” he said patiently. “But because it’s your name. Just like everyone who is naming their children after you are doing it because it’s _your_ name.”

He squeezed Philippe’s shoulder gently. “It’s a tribute for how much you have done for them, okay?”

Philippe looked at him for another moment longer. Then he sighed, dropping his head onto Mathieu’s shoulder. Mathieu rubbed his hand over his back, and he couldn’t help the relief that welled up in him when he felt the strong heartbeat beneath his fingers and none of the ribs.

“It’s a hell of a responsibility,” Philippe said quietly. “What if I mess up so badly that the next generation will be ashamed of carrying my name?”

Ah. So that was what this was about. Mathieu smiled, turning his head. The building was deserted, so he pressed a kiss into Philippe’s curls.

“You’re not going to,” he said quietly. His hand shifted down to twine with Philippe’s, squeezing for a brief moment.

“Now if you don’t show me what you dragged me here for in the next five minutes, I’ll give your name to my son as a _first_ name.”

Philippe lifted his head up. He smiled just a little weakly. “Okay, okay,” he said.

Their hands didn’t separate as Philippe started dragging him again. They made a left turn at the end of the hallway, and Mathieu realised that they were heading towards Philippe’s office. 

“I actually forgot to bring the thing with me, or else I would’ve given it to you at your apartment,” Philippe said over his shoulder. “But I think… it makes for a good symbolic meaning, giving it to you here.”

“What is this thing?” Mathieu asked, just a little impatiently.

The only answer he received was a grin. 

Eventually, they stopped in front of Philippe’s door. There was no name plaque, just the only poster designed and printed for Philippe’s campaign for Président. Because there were extras left after the elections.

Philippe pushed open the door. His office was as plain as the rest of the Palais – beige-painted walls, wooden desk, a couple of second-hand couches, bookshelves filled with books and even more strewn laid all over the floor.

“How do people not trip when they come in here?”

“Only you come in here,” Philippe told him distractedly. His hand left Mathieu’s, and he strode over to his desk and began to toss his papers around. “Aha!”

In his hand was a brown, thin envelope. On the outside, Mathieu could see his own name written with Philippe’s characteristic flourish.

Grinning at him, Philippe leaned against his desk and held it out. “Open it,” he urged.

Mathieu opened the envelope. There was only one piece of paper in it, laminated.

“Certificate of marriage,” he read out. “This is to certify the legitimacy of the marriage.” His breath hitched.

“Between Marie-Aimée-Therese de la Maison de Napoléon and Jean-Luc Gilbert Frey.” 

His fingers dragged downwards, skimming over the smooth lamination to trace the date. It was the same as what Mother had told him was her and Dad’s wedding day.

He lifted his eyes.

“There’s another piece of paper,” Philippe told him. His lips curved up into a small, gentle smile. “Go on. Look.”

Mathieu’s fingers trembled just a little as he drew out the paper.

“Acknowledgment of Reinstatement,” he read out through the growing lump in his throat. “This is to certify the reinstatement of the rank of Lieutenant Colonel upon Jean-Luc Gilbert Frey, born of Paris, Île-de-France.”

The words were blurring. He swallowed, and forced himself to carry on. “Jean-Luc Gilbert Frey joined the army in…” he could not continue. He could only trail his fingers over the document, over Dad’s list of accomplishments, now returned to him.

“You can have them buried together now,” Philippe said quietly. “You can have the rank ‘Lieutenant Colonel carved onto your father’s tombstone. You never have to answer to think of yourself as ‘bastard’ again. You’ll always be able to correct those who said that your father was a good-for-nothing. I know it’s not much, and I know that it took me twenty-four years before I could fulfil my promise. I know it’s too late for them, but I hope—”

Papers and envelope fell onto the ground. Mathieu crossed the distance between him and his brother before he knew it, wrapping his arms around Philippe.

“Thank you,” he choked out. “ _Thank you_.”

“We’ll have them written into the history books,” Philippe was telling him, the words coming out in a rush, clearly rehearsed. “How they met. What they did. What they were like. They’ll be remembered. They’ll be known. You can- you can be proud of them, Mathieu.”

Leaning back, Mathieu wiped away his tears. He looked at Philippe, looked at his brother of different parents. He closed his eyes and fell forward.

“Your mother too,” he said quietly. “You’ll be your mother’s son as well, not just your father’s.”

Philippe’s fingers brushed away more tears that fell from his eyes. Then they wrapped around him, holding tight.

“You don’t have to do that, you know,” Philippe said, his voice choking with what Mathieu suspected was also tears. “Mother was… she was…” He shook his head. “She didn’t… she couldn’t… I….”

Mathieu pressed a gentle hand over his mouth. He smiled through the tears.

“History always wants to know about the families of those who have made it into their annals,” he said. “She’ll have her place. Like my parents will. Because you made it possible for them to be there.”

If things were up to Louis-Jérôme, no one would ever remember Mathieu or his parents. He would even erase Philippe’s mother from history.

But things weren’t up to Louis-Jérôme anymore.

Philippe nodded. He pulled back, looking at Mathieu for a moment before both of them burst out into shaky laughter, wiping at their eyes.

“Look at us,” Mathieu huffed. “The media would have a field day if they could see this.”

“They’ll never see this,” Philippe said, giving Mathieu another soft smile. “They, and the people, don’t need to. It’s not for them.”

He took a deep breath. “I… I was so afraid I wouldn’t be on time.” He stared down at his hands. “I hoped… I really hoped that I’d get you this before your son is born.”

“Why?” Mathieu blinked.

“So the kid will have at least one set of grandparents who are good people,” Philippe said wryly.

“He’ll have M. Javert,” Mathieu pointed out.

“Don’t say that in front of him,” Philippe said, lips twitching a little. “Nothing will make him admit to be your kid’s grandfather. He’s already teaching Jeanne to call him ‘uncle’.”

Mathieu opened his mouth, about to protest, before his mind processed those words. He closed it, sighing. “You’re right.” He rolled his eyes. “He’s been more of a father to me than anyone else had been since I was ten, Azelma _does_ think of him as her father, but getting him to admit it is impossible.”

“Well, I’m sure that M. Jean will be happy to be ‘grandpapa’,” Philippe teased.

Punching his brother on the arm, Mathieu glared. “And have Cosette accuse me of encroaching into her and Marius’s territory? No, thanks.” Valjean was _her_ Papa, and she was oddly possessive over him.

No, not odd at all. There was a reason, and he was locked up behind bars in Rochefort.

He dragged a hand over his hair. “We’re a bunch of people with parental issues,” he said dryly. 

“Which is all the more important for your kid to have grandparents to be proud of,” Philippe said, pushing himself to sit on the desk. “People he can be proud of, and can look up to, without the any need for shame.” 

_Unlike us_ , went unsaid.

“People he can use as a guide to figure out who he wants to be instead of who he doesn’t,” Mathieu added. He sat himself on the desk next to Philippe, bumping their shoulders together.

“So if I screw up horribly, he’ll still have someone else.”

“You’re not going to screw up,” Philippe snorted, bumping back. “You’re going to do just fine.”

Staring at the ceiling, Mathieu tried to believe in that. But it was hard: the efforts put into creation were so much less than development. 

He supposed that was true of both a country and a child. He sighed, and nudged Philippe as he jumped off of the table.

“Come on, let’s get back,” he said. He started picking up the papers and envelope, hugging them close to himself. “We’re meeting the others at M. Jean’s for dinner.”

Before Philippe could say a word, much less formulate a protest, Mathieu tugged on his wrist. “Yes, that means you too,” he said. “Let’s just go.”

“Okay, okay,” Philippe said. “You don’t have to drag me.”

“You’re going to run away if I don’t. So of course I do.”

With change came uncertainty, and with uncertainty came fear. Mathieu always understood the reasons why Louis-Jérôme’d done what he had; he simply never agreed with him. He couldn’t.

Turning his head back, he threw a grin at Philippe, who blinked at him.

“What are you smiling at?”

“You,” Mathieu said. “Our esteemed Président being dragged along like a recalcitrant child.”

“Oy!”

“Of course I’ll be a good Dad,” he continued, grin widening at the sight of Philippe’s indignation. “I’ve practiced on you all these years.”

“ _Oy_!”

***

Valjean was holding very still as a small creature attempted to climb him.

“You know that you can stop her at any time, right?” Javert asked, propping his head on top of his fist. He didn’t bother to hide his smile, or the mirth in his voice.

“She’s enjoying it,” Valjean said. He winced when Jeanne grabbed his belt, pulling herself upwards with her chubby little legs wrapped tightly around his thighs.

Then he looked at Javert, raising both eyebrows. “I’m not sure why she doesn’t climb you instead,” he said dryly. “You’re taller.”

“Because I always grab her by the collar before she can reach my knee,” Javert said, just as dry. “It just takes training.”

He propelled forward when he felt a smack on the back of his head. Immediately, he tensed, but that faded away when he saw Cosette glaring at him, hands on her hips.

“I’d rather you not treat my daughter like she is one of your recruits,” she said tartly. “Or even some kind of wild cub.”

Slowly, deliberately, Javert turned his gaze back to Valjean. Jeanne was already halfway up his chest – the girl climbed _fast_ – and was using what few teeth she owned to grip tightly onto his shirt as she pulled herself up. She left saliva streaks everywhere.

“It’s hard to do that when she behaves like both of those,” he pointed out.

Cosette huffed, dropping down onto the couch next to him. “Still,” she protested.

Marius, coming out of the kitchens, snorted. He walked over to them, careful to avoid Jeanne’s line of sight – especially with how things ended up the last time: Jeanne was halfway up Valjean’s body, saw her father, and decided to make an acrobatic leap while shrieking his name that ended up with three mugs smashed as Marius dropped everything to catch her – before handing his wife her tea along with a kiss on the cheek.

“I’m not sure if I should feel insulted on the behalf of your recruits or not,” he said.

Javert shrugged. “They get called worse,” he said. Then he added, with a sideways glance: “Things I’m not allowed to say in front of Jeanne in case Cosette decides that I deserve to be hit again.” 

Cosette could hit _hard_ ; something that Javert found himself unaccountably proud of.

“That’s not a very good defence,” Marius said.

“You’re the lawyer,” Javert said dryly. “Not me.”

Opening her mouth, Cosette made to interrupt the two men. But her attention was diverted by the sight of her father and her daughter, and she burst out laughing. Javert followed her gaze.

Jeanne had managed to reach the top of Valjean’s shoulders, and was now beating her little fists on his chest while pouting. Valjean looked down at her, and there was a smile on his lips as he gave her a boost upwards to sit properly on his shoulders.

Which she promptly thanked for him by biting onto the top of his bald head, and shouting, “Gr’papa!”

“Ow,” Valjean said.

“She has conquered Mount Valjean,” Javert said, his own lips twitching.

“Help?” Valjean asked, eyes darting from one side of the couch to the other.

“My hands are full,” Marius said, holding up the two mugs of tea as proof. Cosette was still laughing, her arms wrapped around her stomach. Javert wondered if she was going into some kind of seizure.

He sighed, standing up and striding over to Valjean. His hands closed under Jeanne’s armpits – he learned how to carry her properly long ago, but it seemed to be a continuous learning curve with how fast she grew – and lifted her up. Her legs kicked out in protest, and she would have kicked Valjean in the nose if he hadn’t ducked immediately.

“No! Gr’papa!”

“So eloquent,” Javert drawled. He shifted his grip, turning her around until she was facing him. Her little face scrunched up when she saw him, and she broke into a gap-toothed smile.

“’vert! ‘cle ‘vert!”

“Very eloquent.” He shook her a little, and her half-formed cries of his names turned into shrieks. 

“Up! Up up up!”

“And very demanding.” Moving his hands down to her hips, he tossed her upwards. Jeanne screamed something that definitely could not be put into words, her arms and legs flailing all over the place, and Javert rolled his eyes a little as he caught her by her armpits again.

“Again!” she shouted, and he obliged.

“It’ll never stop giving me a heart attack every single time you do that,” Cosette said, her voice barely audible above Jeanne’s continuous screeching. 

“She’s not going to fall,” Javert said, turning around to face her. To prove his point, he caught and threw Jeanne again without looking. “Besides, she likes it.”

“And you accuse _me_ of spoiling her,” Valjean said. He was smiling as he leaned against the side of the couch, arms crossed. “You do it just as badly.”

“I don’t let her drool all over me,” Javert shot back, arch. He caught Jeanne again, raising one eyebrow at the girl. She giggled, and tried to touch it. Given that her attempts to touch things were usually one form of hitting or another, Javert leaned back.

“Hey, Marius,” he said. “Catch.”

“Bwee!”

“ _Christ_ ,” Marius swore. The mugs slammed down onto the table, splashing tea everywhere. He stood up just in time to grab his daughter, wrapping both arms around her as she practically slammed into his chest. “Monsieur! That was dangerous!”

“If you hadn’t caught her, Valjean would have,” Javert shrugged. “And my ears have been damaged enough by her shrieking for the day.”

Cosette was giving him a look while Jeanne continued giggling and attempting to pat (slap) her father’s cheeks. Javert met her gaze, his lips curving up into a lopsided smile, and she only sighed.

“At least Papa doesn’t do dangerous things,” she pointed.

Javert snorted. He walked over to her side of the couch and dropped his hand on top of her head, ruffling her hair hard. Cosette yelped, batting at his hands, and he smirked at her. A little distance away, Valjean wheezed.

“If you were really complaining, you wouldn’t bring her over,” he pointed out. “You would’ve just dragged Valjean over to your house and told me to not come because I’m a hazard to your daughter.”

Cosette continued staring at him, her lips drawn into a straight line. Just a couple of inches to her left, Jeanne was giggling again, trying to bite down on Marius’s finger as he held it in front of her. Grabbing onto it, she brought it to her mouth, and proceeded to drool all over it.

“I’m actually just choosing the most expedient option to entertain a baby without being drooled on,” Javert said. He jerked his thumb over. “Case in point.”

Valjean wheezed again. That seemed to be the catalyst for Cosette, because she shook her head, her shoulders start to tremble with laughter. She continued looking at Javert even as she handed a pack of tissues from the pockets of her dress to her husband.

“God forbid anyone sees the great Inspector Javert will drool on his person,” she said dryly. Then, still shaking her head, she turned towards Marius and held her hands out. Marius gratefully deposited the baby into his wife’s grasp.

“Mama!” Jeanne greeted. She grinned, thrusting out her tiny, chubby arms. “Mama, hug!”

“Once I get you cleaned off,” Cosette told her, and took the tissues Marius was handed to her and began cleaning her daughter’s mouth. Jeanne withstood the treatment solemnly, and made a little “bwee” again when Cosette gathered her close, nudging Jeanne’s head to rest on top of her chest.

“She just made the same sound at resting as she did while being thrown to the air,” Valjean observed, amused.

“There’s no logic to her sounds,” Marius said. He sounded aggravated, like he had spent weeks trying to figure it out and failed terribly. Knowing him, that was likely true.

“Of course there is,” Cosette said archly. “She makes happy sounds whenever she gets what she wants.”

“Which means you’re raising a spoiled brat,” Javert pointed out.

“No!” Jeanne protested.

“As she said, Monsieur,” Cosette drawled. “No.”

Javert opened his mouth, but he was interrupted before he could say a word by the ringing of the bell. He blinked, turning towards Valjean.

“Are you expecting anyone today?”

Valjean shook his head; Frey, Azelma, and M. Philippe came yesterday, and they would be busy today. And no one would come by their house without an invite if they knew anything about them.

Narrowing his eyes, Javert left the living room and headed for the door. Not for the first time, he wished that Valjean would allow him to extend the screens connected to the cameras at the door and the gate to the living room. The other man had said that he didn’t want anyone to be constantly reminded about the possible dangers in their lives when they were in his house. He wouldn’t take back his words about allowing anyone to come if they needed his help, either.

Never mind that there were plenty of bombs with enough power to take out the entire house when placed at the gates.

So Javert insisted on answering unexpected calls. It was some sort of compromise, though he thought he had the worse deal out of it.

He switched on the screen for the camera installed at the gate. And blinked at the familiar face he saw there.

“It’s Monsieur le Président,” he said once he was back in the living room. He sounded a little dazed. “Of the Cour de Cassation. Not M. Philippe.”

Valjean and Marius jerked. Cosette would have if she didn’t have her daughter in her arms, but she looked up as well.

“Why would he be _here_?” Marius asked.

“No idea,” Javert said, trying to keep the shock out of his voice. “Do you want me to let him in?”

“Of course,” Valjean said. At Javert’s raised eyebrow, he shrugged, smiling sheepishly. “We haven’t turned away anyone yet, so why would we do that to the man to whom we owe our freedom to?”

“Good point.” He turned towards Cosette and Marius. “Any objections?”

They shook their heads. Not that he expected them to react otherwise, really.

As he entered the keycode to unlock the gate of the compound, he tried to not look at the man standing right outside. But his mind was already cataloguing: a straight-backed posture with hands folded behind his back, his chin angled so that it did not jut out or tucked down to his chest, and white hair neatly combed. His gaze was almost a physical weight.

There was no cane in his hand. Somehow, Javert thought he should have one. He pushed the thought aside.

“Monsieur,” he murmured, stepping back and pulling open the gate.

Of course he was wondering what this man was doing here, after nine years of not speaking – not to them, not even to the press – about his reasons for the judgment he had given. From M. Philippe Javert had heard how Monsieur le Président had endured a long questioning by Louis-Jérôme himself, and managed to walk out with his position and wealth intact. According to Marius, not even M. Gillenormand managed to get it out of him his reasons or his methods.

But he never took a direct hand into the matters of the revolution itself – all cases after Valjean’s was handed by other judges. He had not even appeared for the Receiving the Eagle Ceremony last year, though Javert knew with absolute certainty that he had been invited.

“I assume that M. Pontmercy is here.”

The man’s voice was deep and steady. Though he was shorter than Javert himself – which was not a surprise, because he knew his own height was practically abnormal – he seemed so much bigger as a person.

“Yes,” he said.

“This is M. Jean Valjean’s house,” Monsieur le Président continued, sounding thoughtful. “Why are you the one to open the gate?”

_Because I live here too_ , Javert wanted to say. He stifled the urge, instead shrugging. “It’s safer this way,” he said.

“Safer?”

“I am better equipped to deal with any threat that might come.”

“Threats.” The word was practically dragged out in between Monsieur le Président’s teeth. His eyes fixed upon Javert’s. “Do you believe I am one?”

Javert cocked his head. “It’s difficult to answer your question when there have been no answers coming from you, Monsieur,” he said.

“Hm.” 

As Javert opened the door of the house and allowed the man to step through before him, he turned around again. His green eyes narrowed before he shook his head. The sound he made could almost be a laugh, if it could be believed that such a man could laugh.

“I suppose that is well-deserved,” he murmured.

Marius, Cosette, and Valjean all stood as he led Monsieur le Président to the living room. Those green eyes scanned them for a moment before he made that sound again.

“None of you have any need to stand on ceremony,” he said. “Not with me.”

His eyes rested on Valjean. For the first time since Javert first saw him on the screen, his chin dipped downwards. “Especially not you, Monsieur.”

“I...” Valjean looked at a loss for a moment. Nine years since he had regained his freedom, and earned the respect of the country, and he was still not good at accepting such a thing.

Javert watched as he ran his hand over his head, and dropped back down onto the armchair heavily. “Yes sir,” Valjean said.

“There’s no need for you to call me ‘sir’, either,” Monsieur le Président said. Maybe Javert’s ears were fooling him, because the man actually sounded _amused_. 

“Please take a sit, M. Pontmercy,” he said. Then his eyes shifted towards Cosette, and was that a tiny smile on his face at the sight of Jeanne, who was staring at him while nibbling on her thumb? “You too, Mme. Pontmercy.”

They sat down as if their strings had been cut.

Monsieur le Président then took a seat on the other couch, directly facing Valjean and to the right of Marius and Cosette. Javert leaned against the doorframe of the living room, and shook his head when those green eyes turned towards him.

“I’m fine,” he said, forcefully keeping the dryness out of his voice.

“Why are you here, sir- Monsieur?” Marius, as always, was the first to ask.

“It might be too late,” Monsieur le Président said. He seemed to be choosing every word carefully. “But I believe that I owe all of you an explanation for my behaviour.”

Javert blinked, but it was Valjean who first spoke this time:

“There is no need for any explanations, Monsieur.”

“You are kind to say such a thing,” the man said, and that was _definitely_ dryness in his tone. “But I have a favour to ask of M. Pontmercy here, and I do not believe I have the right to do so if I do not explain.”

“Of me?” Marius blinked. He leaned forward, dark eyes wide and curious. “What of?”

“I have been Président of the Cour de Cassation for too long,” Monsieur le Président said. “I wish to retire in five years. In that time, M. Pontmercy, I hope that you will take my place.”

Marius’s mouth opened. Then closed. “What?” he choked out. “I…”

Monsieur le Président held up a hand. “Please allow me to explain,” he said, and Marius shut up immediately, swallowing hard. “I have been in office for too long, far longer than is rightful for anyone, even myself.”

His smile widened. There was something to the corner of his eyes that he could not name. “None of you even know my name, do you?”

All of them stared at him for a moment. Cosette ducked her head, turning her attention to Jeanne in a rather uncharacteristically transparent show of avoidance. Marius looked like a fish, his mouth gaping open. Valjean swallowed, and started to shake his head.

“I do,” Javert said, interrupting before anyone could dig themselves further into a hole. “Herculin-Alard-Maximilien de la Maison de Dumas.” He cocked his head to the side. “But no matter how I tried, I never could figure out which of those three names was your preferred one.”

Monsieur le Président laughed. “It is Alard,” he said. “The shortest of the three.” His eyes narrowed on Javert. “Why did you try to find out?”

“Because you have given no explanation,” Javert said, shrugging because he knew he was repeating himself. “It is a common assumption amongst the police, which is sometimes proven true, that those whose silence is conspicuous have something to hide.”

“So you tried to figure out my name?”

“Finding your name was more of a chance thing than any deliberateness,” Javert said, barely resisting the urge to drawl the words. “I was more interested in finding your reasons.”

His eyes darted towards the other three on the couch. There was a dawning horror in Valjean’s eyes, and his hands were twitching just so slightly. Javert flashed him a crooked smile.

“I have never been as trusting as these three.”

“With plenty of reason,” Monsieur le Président nodded. He crossed his legs and folded his hands on his raised knees. Then he dipped his head.

“Please call me M. Dumas,” he said. He clearly meant to continue, but he was interrupted by a small voice:

“Mama?” Jeanne tugged at Cosette’s collar, dark eyes wide as she stared up to the pair identical to hers. “Who that?”

“Who _is_ that,” Cosette corrected absentmindedly. She turned towards M. Dumas – far more convenient to call him that now that Javert had permission – and ducked her head down into a makeshift bow. “My apologies for the interruption. I’ll get her to bed.”

“No, no, there is no need,” the man said. He stood up from his chair and took the few steps towards Jeanne, dropping down to one knee in front of her.

“Hello, little one,” he said, and held out a hand. “What is your name?”

“Jeanne!” the toddler announced, far louder than necessary. She stared at the large hand held towards her, poked it a little, then turned back to the man’s face. “Who you?”

“ _What is your name_ ,” Cosette corrected again. She looked mildly frazzled. Marius, beside her, did not need that modifier. He was nearly twitching in his seat.

“It’s alright. She can’t be more than a year old, can she?” M. Dumas asked, and that was a softer smile than Javert had ever seen grace his face. “Her French is already very good for her age.”

“Who you? Who you?” Jeanne poked his hand again, clearly annoyed at being ignored. _Spoiled brat_ , Javert thought.

“M. Dumas,” he introduced himself, gripping her little finger and shaking it. “It’s nice to meet you.”

She laughed, wriggling her finger as much as she could. “M’sieur Dyuuumaaaaaa,” she enunciated carefully. Then she tugged her other arm out of her mother’s grip, and patted him on the cheek.

“You is nice,” she said solemnly.

“Thank you,” M. Dumas said with just as much solemnity. He inclined his head before standing up again, ruffling Jeanne’s hair a little. She yelped, then giggled up to him.

“Children are trusting, and yet their judgments are at times the best,” he said quietly. Jeanne pouted, looking back at her mother, but Cosette only kissed her hair lightly as she kept her eyes on their guest as he settled back down on his seat.

“I will like you all to call me by my name just as how that child so easily does,” he said.

“We can do that,” Javert said before Marius could probably throw in something that was too accepting. “But you have yet to give us a reason to trust you, Monsieur.”

His lips quirked upwards. “Unlike Jeanne, I have plenty of experience to tell me to be wary about where to put my trust.”

“Javert!” Valjean yelped. “That’s rude!”

Before Valjean could apologise for him, Javert shook his head without looking at the other man. “I know that I owe you my current freedom,” he said. “I know that Valjean does as well. But I know, too, that you did not take on my case of your own accord. M. Gillenormand convinced you.”

“Yes,” M. Dumas nodded. He folded his hands on his lap.

“Your silence has become rather conspicuous throughout these years, Monsieur,” Javert continued, his eyes boring into the other man’s. “And if there is anything I have learned throughout these years, it is that there are very few reasons that are enough to excuse the powerful for doing nothing.”

Out of the corner of Javert’s eye, he could see Valjean clenching and unclenching his hands, as if physically stopping himself from lunging across the room to shut Javert up. His smile only grew more crooked.

If there was anyone who could say such things to M. Dumas’s, it was him. He really would rather not Valjean, Marius or Cosette to have to bear the brunt of his enmity, and they did not have to if he could do it.

M. Dumas hummed under his breath, still irritatingly composed. He leaned back against his chair, looking at Javert for a long moment. “What do you consider to be a good enough reason?”

“Like with M. Philippe or Mathieu,” he replied, shrugging. “You have what it takes, but there’s no way you can do it without losing all of that power and therefore shooting yourself in the foot from the beginning.”

His smile twisted into a smirk. “But even that’s a poor reason.”

“Then I suspect that you will not find my reasons to be satisfactory,” M. Dumas said. His eyes rested on Javert with a weight that would be challenging if not for his innate power and his lack of need to do such a thing.

“We’ll like to hear it anyway,” Cosette said softly. She shifted Jeanne in her arms, lightly patting the toddler’s back to send her to sleep. 

“Even if M. Javert does not find it satisfactory, we might,” she continued. And, of course, she left it unsaid that she and Marius were the ones with the power and influence here – she was still far too kind to say that out loud.

M. Dumas was silent for a long moment, his eyes shifting from Javert to Cosette to the other two men in the room. Eventually, he sighed, his straight shoulders hunching as he leaned back against the armchair.

“The title of Monsieur le Président has become akin to a cage after all these years,” he said, tone wry. “A cage built of fear, complacency, and, worse of all, nostalgia.”

Javert raised an eyebrow. Valjean leaned forward, earnestness writ in his features. “Surely you condemn yourself too terribly, Monsieur.”

Shaking his head, M. Dumas laughed. “I come from a family that is even higher in the ranks than Luc-Esprit,” he said. He waved a hand towards Marius. “Your grandfather, Monsieur.”

He paused, looking over them again. “I was even lucky enough to be granted the privilege of calling Our Great Napoleon by his true name.” His lips quirked upwards. “His name was Charles, though practically no one in country remembers that. He was a personal friend of mine, though I never fought in the unification wars.”

“Why not?” Marius blurted out.

“My place was in the crafting of the laws,” M. Dumas said. His smile widened. “Charles was a visionary, Messieurs, Madame. Even in the midst of the chaos, he recognised that there needed to be a proper system of governance once he succeeded in unifying the country.”

“You…” Javert took a deep, steadying breath. “You _made_ the laws.” Why had he not known this? Why was this never _told_ to the very people who had the duty to uphold those very laws?

“Not out of whole cloth, nor by myself.” M. Dumas shook his head. “I made them according to Charles’s vision of a future.” He sighed. 

“I’m sure Philippe had told you, but the vision Charles had was of a Republic being born out of his dictatorship. He used to laugh to himself whenever he heard himself named ‘Our Great Napoleon’, because surely that was such a grand conceit that no one else could ever stand for it.”

His smile turned rueful. “He had a vision for the future. The books that were kept out of the public’s hands were all stored in Fontainebleau – he planned one day to have them smuggled out, supposedly without his knowledge or permission, and for there to be a revolution to rise up against him, so that he will be deposed and a Republic to take his place.” 

_What does this have to do with you_ , Javert wanted to ask. But Marius was sitting up, leaning forward, his forehead creasing.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” he said. When eyes turned towards him, he shook his head, and repeated. “It makes _no sense_. That plan makes no sense.”

For the first time, M. Dumas’s composure was threatened. He blinked thrice, then took a breath. “Why?”

“You cannot have lasting peace if it is built upon the ashes of a corruptive regime that is made out of lies,” Marius said. “If it is dependent on books being smuggled out and read, it means that this theoretical revolution must begin from the educated.”

He dragged both hands through both of his hair, gaze darting towards Cosette. Whatever he saw in his wife’s eyes seemed to steady him enough to continue. 

“There are several problems with that. One, the educated of the regime will owe their education to the favours of the regime itself, which already biases them against the idea of the revolution.” His hands clasped together, and he shook his head again. “Two, it is entirely dependent upon a theoretical group of people who can get past their privileges in order to understand the wrongness of the situation.”

His lips twisted into a wry, self-deprecating smile. “I can tell from personal experience just how difficult that is.”

Then he sighed. “Three, even if there is a group of educated people who are willing to rise up for the abased for the sake of justice, they will have to face an entire nation of people already brainwashed into the righteousness of the regime.” He rubbed his face. “The revolution my father took part in and was exiled for. The barricades my friends built. That’s two examples out of a whole lot of uprisings that occurred during the entirety of the regime.”

He fell silent, seemingly unable to continue. Cosette reached out, squeezing his hand. She smiled as she turned to M. Dumas.

“What Marius means to say is that this is a plan that hinges on the fact that there will be those educated and powerful enough to get their hands not only on books, but on guns and numbers,” she said, her voice quieter than Marius’s but even stronger. “Whatever revolution that will precipitate will happen on a field of blood, and if the very reason for the revolution is seen to be false… When the symbol of the evils of dictatorship is exposed to be the man who _planned_ for such a revolution to succeed… It will all fall apart.”

M. Dumas’s eyes darted from Cosette to Marius. “Charles never meant for his intentions to be found out,” he said finally.

Javert couldn’t stop himself anymore: he snorted. 

“Then the plan was even more ridiculous, because you were depending on people having the intelligence and talent to lead a revolution while having _just enough_ stupidity and incuriosity to not investigate to the fullest the previous regime,” he pointed out dryly. 

“I don’t know about politics and governance,” he left that up to the young people who could actually wrap their minds around those things, “but if there’s anything that I know about people, it is that they want to know _why_ , and they’d do anything to get their answers.”

“If…” Valjean spoke up, voice hesitant. “If… this theoretical revolution occurred, then those who could be trusted to rule would have been those who would look upon not only the mistakes of the past, but also the reasons behind them.” He stared down at his hands, then back up towards M. Dumas.

“They would have found out. We would have found out.”

“And there’s,” Marius started. He swallowed hard when M. Dumas’s green eyes fixed upon him, but steadied himself by squeezing Cosette’s hand.

“You have surely seen the factions that go against us,” he said quietly. “Even now, there are people unconvinced that we should be the ones in power. M. Philippe received majority votes, but majority is not all. If a revolution had violently overtaken the previous regime, and it was found out that their overthrow was based on false pretences…” he fell silent again.

“Then there would have been another civil war,” Cosette said quietly. 

M. Dumas leaned even further back on his chair, looking at all four of them. His composure had been patched back whole, but Javert fancied he could see the shadows around his eyes deepen.

“Charles once said that he knew there was a risk that his plans would be found,” he said. “But he saw it as a hope that he would one day be vindicated by history for his deeds.”

“So was it for the country, or for his own reputation?” Javert interrupted impatiently. “Did he want to be a dictator smeared through the dirt for his horrible regime, or did he want to be a hero who saved the country?”

“Javert,” Valjean chided him softly. “That is rude.”

“No, it is a valid question,” M. Dumas said. “Though I have never heard it put so bluntly.” He chuckled to himself. “Or thought I would ever hear it put so bluntly, in fact.”

His gaze turned to Javert. “I believe that he thought he would be the first, and only the second only in the centuries to come, when the new Republic that overthrew his regime had been fully established.”

He chuckled again. “But that is, like M. Javert said, dependent on people have enough incuriosity to wait so long.”

“You cannot blame a people for their curiosity,” Valjean said softly. “Once they have learned to fear their government, they never wish to again. Knowledge breeds understanding, and understanding is the greatest weapon against fear.”

“And that knowledge must be given,” Cosette picked up the thread. “It must be given freely and at all times. Not when the leaders will it.” 

She closed her eyes, pulling her daughter closer. Jeanne had, during the long conversation, managed to fall asleep somehow. 

“Yet you have hidden information from the people,” M. Dumas pointed out. “M. Pontmercy’s involvement in the barricades, for instance.”

Marius winced. Cosette squeezed his hand again.

“We have,” she nodded. “We did not think it was relevant at the time, but we learned. We are still learning.”

M. Dumas let out a long breath. He folded his hands on top of his knee again, eyes dropping down to stare at them. Javert resisted the urge to tap his fingers against the doorframe.

“I have not said a word throughout all these years because I assumed that Charles’s plan was the only way a revolution could occur,” he said finally. “I was waiting for an uprising. Another set of barricades being built, perhaps. I thought it would happen during the protest at the gate of Fontainebleau, but… nothing did.”

He laughed. This time, Javert could hear the self-deprecation in the sound. “I believed that my actions and words during your trials would be the catalyst. Though they were, it was not in a way I hoped, or thought I could understand.”

Looking up, he shrugged slightly. “Perhaps I should say that I am too old for change, but that is not satisfactory a reason for you.”

Javert opened his mouth. He caught a glance of Valjean’s eyes out of the corner of his own, and closed it back up again.

“Monsieur,” Valjean said, standing from his chair to stand in front of the older man. “Though you might not believe it from me, what you have already done is more than enough. No matter the reasons for your actions or inactions… your deeds have already earned you our respect and gratitude.”

M. Dumas stared up to Valjean. He blinked rapidly. Javert stifled a laugh at this reaction by averting his gaze to the curtains, because Valjean always seemed to have this effect on people, no matter their age or power or influence.

“Have I?” M. Dumas asked. He was still composed, but his fingers were interlinked now. “Is what I have done enough?”

“Without you, Monsieur, our actions would not have gained the traction they did,” Marius said, standing up as well. “Perhaps, as you said, you have been caged in fear, position, and nostalgia. But you broke out of it all years ago when you gave Papa and M. Javert the freedom they justly deserved.”

Well, Valjean’s freedom was definitely deserved. Javert was still not sure even now if his was.

Cosette shifted Jeanne in her arms, making sure that the girl wasn’t jarred badly as she got to her feet. “There’s no need for you to have helped more than what you already did, Monsieur,” she added.

M. Dumas looked at all three of them. Then his eyes flickered towards Javert, who shrugged.

“I still think that your reasons aren’t satisfactory,” he said dryly. “But then again, I’m the last person who has the right to condemn another for holding onto false and impractical ideals.”

There was something to be said about having self-awareness. Part of the advantages of it was the way Valjean was now looking at him, eyes soft and a small smile curving up his lips.

“Besides,” he added, turning away from Valjean and stifling the instinctive flush that threatened his cheeks. “I am actually grateful for what you did.”

“But I didn’t take an active part in your revolution,” M. Dumas pointed out, raising his eyebrow. “I even got to keep my position in it despite that.”

Javert snorted. “If I condemn you for that, I will have to condemn M. Chabouillet and M. Gisquet as well. I’d be telling M. Philippe that they do not deserve their current positions and have to be removed.” He shrugged. “But I don’t, because they do deserve it, and so do you.”

“There’s also no one to replace any of you,” Cosette said, sounding just a little amused.

“That brings me back to what I’m here for, actually,” M. Dumas said. He pressed his hands on his knees, standing up and turning to Marius. “I still hope that you will agree to work in the Cour with me, such that you can take over as Président.”

“Why me?” Marius asked, blinking.

M. Dumas chuckled. This time, the laughter sounded sincere. “You might all have attributed my actions only to myself,” he said, “but without M. Pontmercy’s arguments during both trials, I would not have been able to do anything at all.

“You brought up the argument of the law having to look upon the circumstances of those who have broken it, and you argued it well. All I had done is to further your argument for you.”

Gently, Cosette reached over and closed Marius’s mouth for him.

“It’s…” Marius started. He shook his head hard. “It’s not merely my credit. It is Cosette’s as well.”

“Well then,” M. Dumas turned towards the woman. “If that is the case, will _you_ like to take over the position, Madame?”

Cosette’s eyes widened, and she froze for a moment. Then she laughed, soft and quiet, shaking her head.

“No, Monsieur,” she said, smiling. “I draft Marius’s speeches, and he delivers them with more strength and heart than I ever can.”

She paused. “To take such a position on my own… I would not be able to judge whether one side is more righteous than another, for my heart would be able to empathise with both.” Her lips quirked upwards. “Especially since the cases of the future will not be as clear as Papa’s or M. Javert’s.”

“You’re wise, Madame,” M. Dumas said, his lips twitching up into a fuller smile. “A heart of empathy will do badly in court.”

Cosette curtseyed a little at the compliment.

“I have no idea whether I will be able to judge, either,” Marius said, shrugging just a little helplessly.

“That’s why you will only take over in five years’ time,” M. Dumas said. “You have principles you hold onto tightly, Monsieur, and you understand how to judge without allowing your heart to be involved.”

“Eh?” Marius said intelligently.

Somehow, M. Dumas did not seem to mind. “You mentioned your father just now, and the young men at the barricades. Charles’s plans, and my own inaction, have contributed in dooming both. Yet you do not judge me harshly for them though those men are close to your heart.”

Marius dragged a hand through his hair, then over his beard. “I… why should that matter, Monsieur?” he asked, still sounding befuddled. “The wrongs you might or might not have done me do not detract from the goodness of your deeds.”

“Precisely,” M. Dumas nodded. “The ability to push away your own emotions to judge objectively, righteously, according to the principles that hold up our laws – that is the role of the judge, especially in the future.”

He shook his head. “A role I have not fulfilled very well through these years.”

“There is no need for such self-castigation,” Valjean broke in. Slowly, with a caution that was surely unwarranted, he reached out and placed a hand on M. Dumas’s arm. “To have offered this to Marius… You have already made up for whatever wrongs you think you might have done.”

Javert bit down on the inside of his cheek. This was _precisely_ why he found it so difficult to believe Valjean whenever he offered forgiveness. He did it so easily, and sometimes it was not to people who deserved it.

Though how to judge if someone deserved it objectively, Javert had absolutely no idea.

“In that case, you surely have to accept, M. Pontmercy,” M. Dumas said, his smile gentling even further. “Not merely to give me a chance to redeem myself for the mistakes of my past, of course, but because you are deserving of the position.”

“I… uh…” Marius’s head swivelled around the room, turning from his wife to his father-in-law to even Javert himself. Javert simply shrugged – this was not a decision he was in any way qualified to help the kid make.

“If… If I find someone who is more deserving of the position, can I not take it?” Marius practically begged.

“Of course,” M. Dumas inclined his head. “Still, they must prove to me that they are more deserving.”

“Uhm.” Marius looked lost for a moment. Then he took a breath, steadying himself. His hand squeezed over Cosette’s where she had closed it over his elbow.

“Okay then.”

Javert had given some thought on history during these past years – how could he not, when he found that he had stumbled somehow into its annals? So he was pretty sure what he was seeing right now was a historic moment: M. Dumas shaking hands with Marius, the old regime giving power over to the new of his own accord.

Still, it just seemed so terribly anticlimactic. It didn’t seem to be of any particular importance. The pride in Valjean’s eyes and the straightness of his shoulders drew his eyes and made his fingers ache for a camera far more.

Maybe that was why he never really understood history.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Notes:** No, Monsieur le Président’s name is not homage to Alexandre Dumas, the author. It is a direct reference to his _father_ , Thomas-Alexandre Dumas, a General during Revolutionary France and who was such a badass that Egyptians preferred him to Napoleon and Napoleon was so incredibly incensed by that that he basically tried to destroy Dumas’s career and took away his pension. [This tumblr post](http://evocating.tumblr.com/post/132972904670/hortensevanuppity-elodieunderglass#notes) is basically the most accessible thing regarding this guy.
> 
> He was also half-black. I’m sorry Monsieur le Président is white. In my defence, this is still Dallas, and a hell of a lot of people in Dallas, especially those representing villains or the government, are white. (The only person in the grey area is actually Éponine.) 
> 
> Also, I _love_ writing in Javert’s POV, as you can probably tell from the second scene. Because Javert is not an intellectual: unlike Marius, Cosette, and even Valjean, he doesn’t have a drop of book-smarts in him. This makes him a perfect narrator when incredibly abstract and faraway concerns like history and politics are being discussed – he serves as a foil to make sure that people remember that policies and such go back to the ground; that ‘the people’ are not just a horde that can be generalised, but are in fact individuals with their own stories and complexities.
> 
> Every government needs a Javert.


	11. Ten, 2145

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the laws change, so must those who enforce it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Book II Chapter 11: Ten, 2145**
> 
> **Warnings:** Mostly plot and discussions. A lot of self-doubt. Entirely focused on Javert.

“M. Chabouillet is looking for you.”

Javert looked up. Verdier was leaning against Javert’s desk, his body half-shrouded by the holographic screens showing all the pieces of evidence regarding a recent kidnapping case. The country might be rebuilding itself and there might be less people left desperate on the streets, but crime and greed were always constants.

Blinking, Javert swiped his hand down from the screens, pushing away his work to give full attention to Verdier. The man was smirking from the corners of his mouth, his arms crossed. Javert frowned – nothing good ever came out of Verdier having that particular expression on his face.

“When did you become a messenger boy?” he asked.

“I was walking past his office and he just grabbed me,” Verdier shrugged. “Plus, Delattre was out.”

The junior officer had suffered through a demotion because he hadn’t captured the sniper in time during the Receiving the Eagle Ceremony two years ago. Though he had redeemed himself since then and been promoted back to Inspector, he was still official errand boy around the Palais de Justice.

Javert snorted. “What does he want me for?”

“He didn’t say,” Verdier paused. His smirk grew, practically taking over his entire face. “But I’m guessing that it has something to do with the rumours of Gisquet’s retirement.”

“Hah,” Javert said. He looked around his desk for a moment before he picked up his leather coat, pulling his arms through the sleeves and buttoning it up. “I didn’t think the old bastard would ever voluntarily give up his position.” No matter how long or how often Chabouillet had ended up doing the job of the Préfect instead of the Secrétaire.

Making to leave, Javert stopped when Verdier said, “Hey.” He turned back.

“If you don’t want the job he’s going to offer you, _I_ do.”

Javert opened his mouth, then closed it. There was _definitely_ something that Verdier either knew or guessed that he was missing here. The problem was, of course, that Javert had no idea what it was: he already had a damned job, so why would he need another.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said dryly.

Entering M. Chabouillet’s office at his distracted “Come in”, Javert stood with his back straight and hands stiff at his side. Even though M. Chabouillet had told him perhaps hundreds of times that he didn’t need to be so formal around him, Javert would never forget the support that he had given – not just to himself throughout his career, but to Valjean as well.

How could he forget when he went home every single day to Valjean, and knew that was possible because M. Chabouillet had allowed Marius to plead Valjean’s case to the Cour?

“You asked for me, sir?”

“Sit down,” M. Chabouillet said, not turning to him. His attention was fixed on a document he was reading through. Javert sat, and averted his eyes from it.

After something like two minutes, M. Chabouillet switched off the hologram and turned to him.

“Have you heard about Gisquet’s impending retirement?”

“Yes,” Javert nodded. The entire Palais was abuzz about it. He even heard the rumours while walking on Paris’s streets. Not that he could blame the people for being interested: the structure and hierarchy of the police was one of the few things left unchanged by the new regime.

“I’m going to take over as Préfect, as is probably obvious,” M. Chabouillet said. He paused, leaning forward with his elbows on his metal-and-glass desk. His eyes caught Javert’s, and held his gaze. 

“When I do, I want you to take over as Secrétaire.”

Javert stared. A part of his mind told him that _this_ was what Verdier was referring to, and was wondering just how that man had figured out what was going on in this meeting before him. But most of his brain was too busy shrieking in disbelief for any coherence. __

__He took a deep breath. His hand shook as he raised it to run through his now-white hair.

“No,” he said.

M. Chabouillet cocked his head. “No?”

“That position isn’t one I’m suited for, sir,” he said, fighting the urge to duck his head down. “You’re asking me to be both a leader and a spokesperson. I’m not good at either of those things.”

He was too rude and too brusque for the latter, and too used to working independently for the former.

“Not good at either of those,” M. Chabouillet repeated, drawing out each word as if he was examining them with his tongue. Slowly, one eyebrow crawled up to his forehead. “You’re such a terrible leader that the entire force ended up following you during that first protest for the emancipation law. Your leadership skills are so non-existent that you were our only choice to mobilise the nation-wide police force for the referendum. You’re so shit at leading that the argument you made regarding the police being unarmed during peaceful protests is now written into our Code and made into regulation.”

Javert winced with every single proclamation.

“You’re such a horrible spokesperson,” M. Chabouillet continued, “that your words regarding not having a reward for protecting M. Louis-Jérôme, M. Philippe, and the Archbishop of Notre-Dame during the Ceremony is now held up as the standard of conduct for police officers.”

Opening his mouth, Javert tried to protest. But before he could get a word out, M. Chabouillet shook his head and leaned back against his chair.

“You’ve been doing my job for the past few years, Javert,” he said. “It’s long past time that you get the recognition for it.”

Despite the quiet tone, despite the seriousness of the situation, Javert could see the mirth tugging at the corners of M. Chabouillet’s mouth. He sighed, shaking his head.

“Does it make for a better argument if I say that I don’t want the job?” he asked.

“That’s not an argument,” M. Chabouillet pointed out, definitely smiling now. “That’s a denial, and a weak one at that.”

Javert spread out his hands, shrugging. “I’m no good with words,” he said. “The things you mentioned… they’re more of exceptions instead of the rule.”

M. Chabouillet blinked. His hands steepled beneath his chin, and his eyes grew sharper as they narrowed on Javert. “You have no idea, do you,” he said flatly.

“About what?”

“Whether officers or recruits,” M. Chabouillet said, so slowly that Javert’s hands twitched with involuntary irritation, “the first person every newcomer to the Palais wants to meet is _you_. They want to see how you work. They want to work _with_ you. The only reason why they haven’t insisted on being on your team is because _you_ insist that you don’t want one, and they don’t dare to go against you.”

He took a deep breath, holding up a hand. Javert clicked his mouth back shut.

“It’s not just within the Palais itself,” M. Chabouillet continued. “Every time I meet someone new, whether my neighbours, newly-minted politicians, or even foreign dignitaries, they hear that I am from the police, and they ask about _you_.”

Pushing himself away from the back of his chair, he smirked at Javert. “Recently, during our first meeting with the new ambassador of the United Republics of Ireland, she told Gisquet straight to his face that she expected _you_ to be the Préfect of the Police. You see, every time the police in France was talked about, your name came up, so she thought you had the highest position.”

Javert knew he probably looked incredibly stupid at the moment: his lips were open, and eyes so wide that they were practically bugging out. He scrambled for words, but there were none.

“Honestly, I should just let you take the Préfect position,” M. Chabouillet sighed. “But I knew it would be a lost cause to even offer it to you. I was _hoping_ that position of Secrétaire is more palatable.”

“I…” Javert dragged a shaky hand through his hair. He wasn’t stupid; he knew what M. Chabouillet was implying – that he’s the most famous person in the entire force, and practically their symbol – and that was a hard pill to swallow. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“The same as always: everything that’s in your mind.”

Closing his eyes, Javert took a deep breath. “I’m flattered,” he said, exerting all effort to keep his voice steady. “But Monsieur… You forget, all those people forget, that I make for a crap symbol. I was a slave. I _am_ a criminal. I did the worst thing that any police officer could do – I lost control and killed a man when he didn’t have to die.” 

His hands were shaking. He balled them into fists. It had been more than ten years; why was it that he couldn’t talk about this _calmly_?

“The only reason why I’m even in the Palais in a uniform instead of in chains is because of your mercy,” he continued. Much to his shame, his voice shook. “I don’t… I don’t deserve any of those accolades.”

He heard the sound of wood scraping against wood, but he didn’t move until M. Chabouillet’s hand landed on his shoulder. He flinched then, practically jumping away from the touch, because he was too… he was too…

Blindly, he slapped his hand over his chest, fingers digging in. He couldn’t feel the silver chain beneath the layers of leather and cotton, but the motion reminded him that it was there. Even if he lost his uniform again, there was still _something_ he could hold onto.

“I don’t deserve any promotion,” he said. His own voice sounded like it came from deep beneath the ocean. “I… Just look at me, Monsieur.”

“Mm,” M. Chabouillet said. His voice was neutral and contemplative. “I’m looking at you. Lift your head, Javert.”

Helplessly, Javert obeyed. He swallowed hard when he found those eyes on him.

“This is precisely why I think you’re suitable to lead,” M. Chabouillet said quietly. “Not merely because you have proven yourself to be able to ever since the fucking collar was gone from your neck, but because you _know_ , Javert. You know what it’s like to make mistakes. You know what it means to pick yourself up again.”

He paused. “You’ve seen the law from all of its sides. You have been under its thumb as street trash, as slave, as criminal, as police officer. There’s _no one else_ who has been all of that. No one else who knows what it feels like. No one knows how those people think, and how we should act in response.”

“I don’t…” Javert shook his head. No, that was false. He knew how to act. He always did. But just because he knew didn’t mean that he could have as exalted a position as Secrétaire, much less Préfect itself like M. Chabouillet implied.

“Monsieur, I don’t fit into that world,” he said. Finally, he managed to straighten his shoulders, looking up to the man with steady eyes. “As Secrétaire, you meet with politicians, with foreign ambassadors… There are ways to act, Monsieur, and I don’t know any of them.”

M. Chabouillet looked at him for a moment. Then he threw his head back and _laughed_. “That’s…” his shoulders trembled. “You’re practically father to both the woman who is crafting our healthcare laws and the man who is building our education system from scratch. You have close relations to every single prominent leader of our country.”

He shakes his head. “That’s the _last_ argument I expected from you.”

_I’m not their father_ , Javert wanted to protest. _I’m not worthy of that title_. But that wasn’t something he could argue with M. Chabouillet. Even if he won, he knew that the man’s latter point still stood.

But he never really thought of M. Philippe as his Président; not even as he arranged for security during the man’s election campaign and voted for him. To him, M. Philippe is a man half-caught in boyhood still, his eyes eternally shadowed by suffering that not even Valjean could dissipate. And Marius, Cosette and Azelma were…

Marius was too clumsy for dignity; Cosette hit too hard to be the epitome of ladylike behaviour the country envisioned her to be; Azelma needed to be assured frequently that her ideas were correct and she was worthy of her position; and Mathieu frequently went on endless rants on obscure history that made Javert’s eyes glaze over.

They were children, all of them. They were often blind, too caught up in their ideals and theories to remember important things that Javert had to shake back into them. They started a revolution and _won_ , but Javert knew too much of those days and its uncertainties to be able to worship them based upon that mere phrase as so many did. And they…

He dragged his hand over his hair. “They know me, Monsieur,” he said quietly. “Like you do. They forgive my foibles and my bluntness, because they expect nothing else. It’s… it’s not the same when it comes to the country, much less the world.” He was no diplomat, no high-ranking politician. 

All he was, all he had ever been, was a police officer.

M. Chabouillet didn’t speak for long moments. Then he sighed, leaning back against his desk. “There’s no way I can convince you to take it up, is there?” he asked.

“No.”

“There’s a statement coined probably by someone famous,” M. Chabouillet said, sounding contemplative, “that those who reject power are precisely those who deserve it.”

Javert blinked. “Or those who do know just how much they don’t deserve it,” he pointed out.

“Maybe,” M. Chabouillet shrugged. “But you deserve more than to keep solving cases that can be left to people like Delattre until your retirement, Javert.” He spread out his hands.

“Give me something here.”

“The privilege of solving cases is already more than I deserve,” Javert said wryly, knowing that it was a futile argument and needing to say it anyway.

M. Chabouillet rolled his eyes. “Let me put it another way, then,” he said, impatience now seeping into his tone. “Your experiences are wasted in solving cases. Your _influence_ is.”

Then he blinked. Slowly, he started to smile. Instinctively, Javert tensed.

“Ten years ago, you sent me an email,” M. Chabouillet said slowly. “For the past ten years, I’ve been arguing with Gisquet, on and off, about the validity of the ideas inherent in that email. Sure, there are a lot of flaws in how you wanted to execute it, but the idea itself is very sound.”

Javert blinked. “You mean…”

“The police academy,” M. Chabouillet said. His smile morphed into a grin. “With you as superintendent and primary administrator. How about that?”

“How…” Javert started. He shook his head. “How is that different from being Secrétaire? It’s still asking for the same things.”

“It’d be something you believe in,” M. Chabouillet told him. “Something you can fight for. You always did well with those.”

There was nothing Javert could say in protest to _that_. M. Chabouillet had clearly grown to know him far too well over the last ten years.

“We can discuss and draft up a proposal,” M. Chabouillet said, clearly gaining steam with the idea. “When I’m officially Préfect, I’ll send it up to Palais Bourbon.”

“Wait,” Javert protested. He stood up. “Wait, when I suggested that idea, I didn’t think I would be the one in charge of it!” Which was the plain truth: he was planning to take a permanent dip into the Seine afterwards; it was meant to be his last shot at some kind of redemption, some sort of betterment of the broken society they were still recovering from.

Funny how events ended up changing the plans one made.

M. Chabouillet jabbed a finger in his direction. “Your idea, your execution,” he stated. 

“No, no, wait,” Javert protested, his hand clenching on the edge of the table. “Didn’t I state it in my email that it was a suggestion for _you_ to execute?”

“I’m not going to do your work for you,” M. Chabouillet laughed. 

That was a valid point. Still- “I can’t _teach_ ,” he pointed out. “I have no idea what a curriculum even looks like!”

“You have the Ministère de l’Éducation nationale within arm’s reach,” M. Chabouillet said, sounding exasperated. “For God’s sake, man, you live with a man who has been teaching at M. Frey’s school for the past ten years.”

“Then get _them_ to do it,” Javert said. He knew he sounded unreasonable – childish, even – but the very thought of having such authority made him shiver.

M. Chabouillet crossed his arms and lifted an eyebrow. “They won’t know what to put in there,” he pointed out. “Like I said, you know the law inside-out, including the effects it has on people.”

Javert opened his mouth, but M. Chabouillet glared him back into silence.

“If you head it, there will be no more need for recruitment campaigns, and I won’t need to make any more speeches about how the police works,” he continued. “You’re the one person the public can trust to ensure that the future of law enforcement will be fair and just, because you’ve proven it to them over and over.

“There’s no one better for the task than you.”

“That’s not true,” Javert protested weakly. “Surely there are more capable people.”

“Name me one,” M. Chabouillet challenged.

“Verdier,” Javert threw out the first name that popped into his head.

“No,” M. Chabouillet snorted. “That man knows his stuff when it comes to detective work. He knows people inside out, and can figure out how they think. But he doesn’t have anywhere near the kind of influence you do. Why make him prove himself to the country when there’s already someone who already has?”

Well, that was a valid point. In all honesty, Javert knew that all of M. Chabouillet’s points were valid, but he still could not find it within himself to accept them. He searched for a possible counterargument, found none, and tried for a distraction.

“Verdier wants the Secrétaire job, by the way,” he said.

“Eh,” M. Chabouillet grunted. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

He waved a hand. “Don’t try to change the topic,” he said. “Either you become Secrétaire, or the head of the police academy. It’s one or the other, Javert.”

“But I don’t want either,” Javert pointed out, just in case that wasn’t clear enough already.

“I’m not letting my first deed as Préfect be letting you rot in your current position,” M. Chabouillet said. “It’s not ethical.”

“What does ethics have to do with any of this?” Javert blinked.

“The country is still in a state of crisis because we don’t have enough resources,” M. Chabouillet reminded him. “Including capable people in leadership positions. Even letting one go to waste might lead to the failure of the better world we _all_ want to build.”

A better world. Of all things M. Chabouillet used as a weapon against Javert’s defences, it was this. He closed his eyes, sinking back into the chair. He barely resisted the urge to rub at his temple.

He hadn’t forgotten his dreams from so many years ago. Fantine in the alley, the flowers amidst the blood. Lady Justice, her blind, stone eyes falling to pieces to reveal Valjean’s merciful ones. 

He hadn’t forgotten the people either: Khulai, enslaved for years for the crime of trying to live; Clarisse, forced to live on the run for the crime of wanting to escape terrible abuse; Hughes and Bressole, speaking about the ‘easy’ life on the streets where all they had to worry about was where their next meal was coming from; even Duval, haunted by nightmares of the darkness and stench of a dumpster, waiting for a brother that never came for him.

The police was complicit in their suffering. Every officer who pulled down their visors and allowed that to blind him to the injustice was complicit. Every Inspector who allowed his leather coats to lift him above the law was guilty. He helped to bring down the Napoleon regime because the law was unjust; because there was need for justice.

But Javert had never believed that _he_ could bring it to the people. He had always been a tool, an accessory. First with his trial to pave the way for Valjean’s, then as bodyguard as Cosette and the others led. He stood in the background, a looming shadow to better emphasise their light.

M. Chabouillet wanted him to teach justice; wanted him to show the entirety of the force how to bring it about. But how could he do that when his ideas of justice wasn’t even his own? How could he do that when the path he walked towards it wasn’t one he made, but painstakingly paved by Valjean’s effort, and illuminated by his light?

Not even his eyes were his own.

“You don’t have to make a decision now,” M. Chabouillet said. Javert shuddered, lifting his head back up to meet that heavy but kind gaze.

His hand, he vaguely noticed, was once more clenched around his shirt.

“Give me three days to think about it, please,” he said quietly. He hesitated, then pushed on. “And… even if I do agree, I have one condition.”

“What is it?”

“Put me on probation,” he said, swallowing. “If I make a terrible mistake, then… remove me from that position. Put someone better qualified.”

“I don’t think there’s anyone better qualified,” M. Chabouillet said, voice light. But he sobered when he saw something in Javert’s eyes, and nodded.

“That can be done. If it’d reassure you.”

It wouldn’t only be for his own sake, but the country’s as well. Javert had too many stains on his being to be trusted. If the academy was to take off, then his flaws and incompetencies could not be allowed to touch it.

His hand moved from his own chest down to the arm of the chair as he stood. Meeting M. Chabouillet’s gaze, he bowed almost as deeply as he did when he was a slave.

“Thank you. For your faith in me.”

Not just in this particular instance, but through the years. Javert’s debts towards the man were so numerous that he knew he would never be able to repay them. His gratitude wasn’t enough, but… it would be a start.

The older man’s hand came down on his shoulder, squeezing lightly. This time, Javert didn’t flinch – he tried for a small smile instead.

“You’ve never failed it,” M. Chabouillet said. Then he withdrew his hand, and jerked his head towards the door.

“Now go back to work. And keep thinking about what I said.”

Javert nodded, and left the office. He leaned against the door for a moment afterwards, dragging his hand through his hair. It was tempting, terribly so, to turn back and tell M. Chabouillet that he would take on the academy, or even the position of Secrétaire, if M. Chabouillet asked it of him as a personal favour. He would have agreed in an instant then.

But M. Chabouillet wouldn’t, and Javert knew why: it would be dishonest, and both positions owed too much to the country to be bartered based upon personal debts. 

Sometimes Javert missed the days when his world was no wider than the streets; when the affairs of the country were still symbolised by the glittering world of Fountainebleau that he knew he would never be able to touch. But those days were over. 

Were they over from the moment he stood in front of all of the officers in Paris, imploring them to give up their weapons when escorting the peaceful protest into that glittering world? Or was it even before that, from the moment he stepped into the alleyway and pulled the trigger?

He didn’t know. He suspected that he would never know the answer.

Pushing himself off the door, Javert headed back to his desk. When Verdier raised an eyebrow in question, he shrugged, and dove back to his abandoned work.

At least with the search for criminals, he knew his way.

***

It took until the next evening before Javert found the words to broach the subject. He knew he had been quiet ever since he returned home, but Valjean knew him well enough by now to simply wait him out.

Dinner was over and they were seated on the couch in the living room. The holographic projector was switched off, and Valjean was leaning against Javert’s shoulder, one hand thumbing through a thick, dog-eared and tabbed tome – by some man named Paulo Freire – with the other gently stroking over Javert’s knuckles. Javert was staring at the wall.

“Do you…” his tongue felt too thick, his jaw heavy. Javert swallowed, and tried again. “Do you remember the police academy that I once suggested to M. Chabouillet?”

Valjean lifted his head up, dark eyes bright. “The one where police officers are to be taught mercy,” he nodded. “I remember.”

“M. Chabouillet offered me the superintendent position of it yesterday,” he said. He faltered; the task seemed too large to even fit into his mouth.

Squeezing his hand, Valjean closed the book and put it away. He didn’t say a word, only kept his eyes on Javert as he waited. Javert closed his eyes, focusing on the warmth of those rough-callused fingers, feeling it seep into his bones.

“We’d draft the proposal and hand it to Palais Bourbon, but afterwards… afterwards… it’d be my responsibility.”

Slowly, haltingly, he told Valjean about the meeting. Not only of his thoughts, but also M. Chabouillet’s words – everything about his supposed achievements, all of the reasons why he stated that Javert was the best person for the job. When he finished, half an hour had passed, and the room darkening as the summer sun began to set.

“It’s too much of a responsibility,” he said, repeating himself for the third time. “An academy would shape the police force of the future. I can’t…” He shook his head.

Valjean shifted on the couch. Javert reached out blindly towards him as Valjean tugged him even closer, drew him down until Javert’s head was on his lap. He turned his head, closing his eyes as one hand stroked through his hair and the other rubbed the skin of his neck touched by the chain. Unconsciously, Javert’s breathing evened back out, a soft calm descending him like a comforting blanket.

“Oh, Javert,” Valjean breathed. “Was this why you were so off-balance yesterday?”

Javert nodded. He scrambled for one of Valjean’s hands, tugging it until it was close enough for him to pepper kisses on the knuckles.

“I’m sorry for not telling you then,” he said, voice a little muffled. “But I couldn’t put it into words. It was too…”

“Shhh,” Valjean murmured. His thumb stroked over Javert’s mouth, and Javert stopped speaking immediately.

“You have no need to apologise,” Valjean continued, thumb travelling up to his eyes, tracing the deep-set wrinkles there.

Javert nodded. He ached to ask Valjean to make the decision for him, to give him an answer he could give to M. Chabouillet, but he silenced himself before he could speak. That wouldn’t be fair to any of them. That would just be cowardly, and Javert had promised himself long ago that he would never make use of what he had with Valjean – not just the way their fingers twined together, but the way Javert fell so easily to his knees, the thing he still had no words for – for something so selfish.

Neither of them spoke for a long time. Javert was too wound up to doze, but his vision started to blur at the edges, eyes falling half-shut, anyway. He wasn’t asleep: it was just that the world was a lot less important, a lot less _large_ , when Valjean was touching him like this. Now all he had to do was to focus on Valjean: his scent, the solidity of him around Javert’s form, the rhythmic stroking of his fingers on his neck and hair.

“I never got you to read _Notre Dame de Paris_ , have I?” Valjean said. His voice was pitched low enough that it didn’t shatter the silence between them.

“No,” Javert said. He opened his eyes fully, meeting Valjean’s gaze. “I still think it’s stupid that a man would name a book after a building.”

Valjean laughed, the sides of his eyes creasing. Javert found himself smiling as well, warmth blossoming deep in his chest at the thought that he could make Valjean laugh. That, after a lifetime of chasing the man, of making his life hell, Valjean forgave him and trusted him enough to laugh like this around him.

(He never forgot. He could never forget. Not when the brand on Valjean’s chest would always be there to remind him.)

“Do you still remember the story?”

“Mm,” Javert nodded. “About a hunchback who was kept in the church’s bell-tower, and the hypocritical priest who kept him there. And also the Roma woman he fell for, and the Captain _she_ fell for.” He flapped his hand a little. “The priest sings to himself in front of a fireplace.”

Valjean caught his hand, pressing a kiss to the back of it. He was chuckling again, tiny breaths of air that made goosebumps rise on Javert’s skin. 

“That last part was the movie, not the book,” Valjean said. “But Hugo – the author – he wrote the book with the intention…” He hesitated. “The _hope_ , I’d say, that people would read it and realise that there is something wrong about the world he and they were all living in. That religion was corrupt. That the treatment of the Roma was unfair. That there was a great depth of kindness to mankind, as shown by the hunchback, and a great depth of evil too, as shown by the priest.”

Javert nodded. He didn’t know how a book could do that, but then, he hadn’t read it.

“The world didn’t change after he wrote that book,” Valjean continued. “It was sold, and presumably read, by many people, but there wasn’t a revolution. There wasn’t a change in the laws, whether in the Church or the government about the Roma. It was hailed as a masterpiece, but…” Valjean huffed out a breath.

“Nothing changed.”

Blinking, Javert cocked his head. “Isn’t the effort useless, then?” he asked. “Shouldn’t he have tried another way?”

“He did,” Valjean nodded. His hand paused a little in its stroking over Javert’s hair. “He wrote an essay about the last day of a man sentenced to death, and that did help to change the world’s attitudes about the death penalty. At least for a while. But…”

Fingers brushed over Javert’s jaw. Javert turned his eyes up, and met Valjean’s soft, dark eyes.

“I don’t think that _Notre Dame de Paris_ is less in merit than _The Last Day of a Condemned Man_ ,” Valjean told him quietly. “Less might have happened because of it, but the work itself is still a masterpiece. More importantly… it’s something honest to Hugo’s beliefs. Something he worked hard to create with much care and thought.”

Ah. Valjean so rarely spoke in metaphors, especially around him, that Javert still needed a few moments before he could grasp them.

“But it’s not a book that I’d be making,” he protested. “It’s… it’s a foundation for something important.”

“Mm,” Valjean nodded. “But Javert… there’s only so much you can do. There’s only so much any of us can do.” 

He tipped his head back, looking up to the ceiling. “Hugo might have changed minds about the death penalty in his time, but years later, it came back, worse than ever. That doesn’t lessen the worth of his essay, or his efforts.”

Javert understood Valjean’s point. Still, it was… “It’s not a book that could be forgiven,” he protested again. “It will be a building. It will be a set of rules and policies that will be followed.”

“It’s not about books,” Valjean shook his head. His knuckles brushed over Javert’s cheek. “It’s… Javert, there’s no reason to reject M. Chabouillet’s offer because you’re afraid of making mistakes.”

“There’s a limit to the amount of forgiveness a man should receive for the mistakes he makes, I think,” Javert pointed out wryly. Surely he had already used up all of his store, and perhaps most of it in the next lifetime.

“No,” Valjean said. His voice was suddenly fierce, eyes bright as they bore into Javert’s. “We’re building a new world in which people are _allowed_ to make mistakes. That people won’t be made to suffer for an entire lifetime because of the mistakes they made.” 

He took a breath, visibly forcing the tension out of his shoulders. His fingers continued their gentle slides through Javert’s hair. “Not only for the lowest, but for the highest as well. We all do our best, and we must… we _can’t_ try to calculate the worth of our actions according to the judgments of their righteousness in the future, because we don’t know what they will be.”

Javert squeezed the hand in his, bringing it down and pressing a kiss onto the warm palm. “You should take that advice for yourself, you know.” He wanted to say something better, stronger, but those were all the words he had.

But they seemed to work anyway: Valjean let out a huff of breath, his lips curving upwards as he eased back against the couch. “I try to,” he said. Then he shook his head.

“Even if _Notre Dame de Paris_ didn’t change what Hugo wanted it to change, it still broke new ground: the hunchback was someone you admired not because you wanted to be him, but because you saw how he could become better than what those around him said he was. That was unheard of, in Hugo’s day.”

Opening his mouth, Javert tried to say that he didn’t understand, because now the metaphor had turned into a different direction than before. But Valjean forestalled him with a thumb against his lips.

“That’s like teaching. Like building a country, even,” Valjean explained. “You won’t know what your students will take from you. You can only be honest and true, to work according to your beliefs, and let them take what they can from that.”

“Is that enough?” Javert asked, unable to help himself. “M. Chabouillet said I was a symbol. That I have influence. Don’t I have a responsibility to not falter, then?”

Valjean hesitated. Then he leaned down, pressing his lips over Javert’s for a moment. “He also said that he trusts you to set up this academy because you _have_ made mistakes,” he reminded him. “Every fall allows us to grow and to learn.”

Javert’s expression must be unconvinced, because Valjean laughed. “Not even M. Chabouillet is exempt from mistakes,” he said. His hand splaying out, nails scraping lightly over Javert’s scalp. “He even admitted to them: that he stayed so long in his position, enforcing unjust laws, despite having the power to change them.”

“But he did not see,” Javert protested immediately. “There was no way he could have seen.”

“No, he saw,” Valjean said, and it was only the steel in his voice – buried, as always, beneath its silk-gentle covering – that stopped Javert from defending his patron again. “There were surely many people who begged him for amnesty, and he would have seen all of the cases where people were arrested for the crime of trying to live. He knew you, and yet he allowed you to continue to blind yourself for decades without doing a thing.”

Every word Valjean said was like a heavy stone dropped onto Javert’s chest. He might be able to condemn the laws, but to condemn figures of authority, to even acknowledge the flaws of a man he owed so much to… It went against the very fibre of his being. But disagreeing with Valjean on the notions of justice and righteous actions… That was impossible as well.

He closed his eyes.

“Maybe,” he said. A poor response, he knew, but it was all he could give.

“I’m not telling you to accept that,” Valjean said, squeezing his hand. “But that’s how _I_ see it, and his acknowledgment of the mistakes he made is what allowed me to trust him.”

Javert’s eyes flew open. He stared. “What?”

“To make mistakes, to acknowledge them being made… that earns trust,” Valjean told him. “Because committing mistakes is human, admitting to them is to admit to one’s humanity, and no one can ever deny the humanity of another living being when it’s displayed clear for all to see.”

When Javert started to shake his head, Valjean added, “It’s the reason why, in the past, defendants who pleaded guilty would receive a lessened sentence.”

Oh. Javert blinked. He had heard of that, of course – during one of Mathieu and Marius’s discussions (or rants) about the history of the law codes in France – but he had never thought the reason behind that could be this.

He let out a quiet laugh. “I don’t see how I can lead anyone when I still need you to show me the righteous and just way to everything,” he said. Reaching up, he brushed his knuckles over Valjean’s cheek. “You’re better qualified than I am for this.”

Valjean shook his head. “I don’t have the passion for the law and the police as you do, or the knowledge of how recruits tend to be trained,” he pointed out. 

True enough. And there was this too, Javert’s rational mind added: Valjean would be terribly stifled if he had to enforce the kind of harsh physical training on recruits that was absolutely necessary. He would be too gentle on them, too merciful and forgiving.

The downtrodden needed a soft hand. Those who threatened to crush those beneath their heels needed a harsher one.

“But if it’s uncertainty that’s holding you back,” Valjean continued, “I’m always here, Javert. You know that.”

A finger wound around the silver chain on Javert’s neck. Valjean didn’t tug on it; he didn’t have to. Javert closed his eyes, turning his head and nuzzling against the back of the hand so close to his cheek.

He wanted to agree. He wanted to say that yes, he would do this. To please Valjean. To repay at least part of the debt he owed M. Chabouillet. But he could not. And he could not agree at this moment when his head was still spinning, his own arguments tangling with Valjean’s and M. Chabouillet’s into a Gordian knot that he had no sword to cut.

Meeting Valjean’s gaze again, he gave him a small, apologetic smile. “I told M. Chabouillet to give me three days,” he said.

Valjean nodded. “Don’t rush into a decision just to please me,” he told Javert quietly.

Of course Valjean would recognise that. Javert nodded, pushing himself to sit up. He shifted on the couch until he could clasp Valjean’s cheeks with both hands, drawing him into a slow, lingering kiss.

“I know,” he said.

If there was anything Javert had learned from all those years by Valjean’s side, it was this: he could not blind himself to his own motivations or to the world anymore. But now… now, it seemed there was something else too: he couldn’t let that knowledge cripple him from doing what needed to be done. Even if he faltered from uncertainty…

He had Valjean’s light to guide him. Surely that was more than enough.

***

On 14 November 2145, the _École Nationale Supérieure de la Police_ was established in the renovated location of Hôtel de Rochechouart on 18 Rue de Rochechouart, Paris. In his first statement regarding the academy, handpicked Superintendent and Chief Administrator M. Javert stated that the historical significance of the Hôtel as the old headquarters of the Ministère de l'Éducation nationale was the reason he chose it to house the new police academy.

“The role of the academy is not training, but education,” stated M. Javert in the speech he gave at the opening ceremony. “Our primary objective is not to teach future officers how to use handcuffs or shoot people, but how to make the right decisions; to understand the reasons behind the existence of our laws, and judge their righteousness when applied to specific situations.”

M. Javert’s past as a convicted criminal and slave and his close relationship with Président M. Charles-Louis-Philippe caused some controversy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, all of the stuff I had Valjean say Hugo wrote are actually things Hugo wrote. Why do I have Hugo’s characters discuss his other works? Because I like fucking around with the fourth wall, and I’m very self-indulgent when it comes to stuff I write. Sorry.
> 
> The book by Paulo Freire that Valjean was reading is _Pedagogy and the Oppressed._ I typed up a whole essay on the influence of Marxism and socialism in the current society being built, but I deleted it because it was too nerdy and I’m kind of talking out of my ass. So just ask if you want to know about it.
> 
> Next chapter will move faster than this one. I think.


	12. Eleven, 2146

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The old guard must pass for the new to take its place. Is that not a good reason to go gentle into the night?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Book II Chapter Twelve: Eleven, 2146**
> 
> **Warnings:** Impending minor character death, major character grief. Also, Javert has whole subscriptions of issues, as usual.

When Javert was sixteen years old, he received the position of a junior guard, and with it came his first set of the uniform. He brought it to the tiny, ramshackle room he rented himself with the money he earned from doing odd jobs, and spread it out over the thin mattress that served as his bed. He touched it with reverence, filled with awe that he had _finally_ managed to rise above his birth… But that did not last. The confusion took over far too quickly.

It was the first clothing he had ever worn that had buttons. All he wore before were shirts and pants he’d scavenged from dumpsters, most of them ill-fitting on his frame and with holes in strange places. He would bring those back to his little room, patch up the holes, and wash them in the sink. There had been no one he needed to impress, and what he could find in the dumpster all looked far more respectable than anything he could afford in shops.

The uniform’s buttons were not the simple ones he saw on some of the Toulon residents’ dress shirts; ones where he could figure out how they worked just by looking – there was the button, and the button hole. No, these buttons were _hidden_ and placed in strange positions: not just down the chest, but under the arms as well, and the shirt could be fastened to the pants.

Javert had looked at it, and set his mind to figuring it out. It took him an hour before he was certain where everything was supposed to go, and another hour before he could dress himself. Then he took another three hours trying to see how he could alter the clothes so that they fitted his lean frame better instead of hanging off of him as if he was wearing the clothes of a father he didn’t know and was already dead. Even though he had never tailored anything before, he managed to make himself look not only respectable, but _neat_.

He kept the extra pieces of cloth, just in case he needed them. But when his body finally filled out, he was twenty-two, and the prison authorities had promoted him up to a proper guard position with its own separate uniform.

Figuring out how to run a brand new police academy wasn’t much different from trying to understand the mysteries of a new uniform. More time was involved, of course, but that didn’t matter all that much to him, because time moved differently now than when he was sixteen. The stakes were objectively higher, too, but Javert didn’t think much of that: it _felt_ the same.

Maybe that was why he was lingering on those long-ago memories. Or perhaps some of these young people – they allowed both men and women to sign up if they wanted to, though there were far fewer of the latter who did – reminded him of himself then: awkward, uncertain, and in a constant state of shock that they were actually where they were.

Honestly, the real reason was probably that he was spending too much time with Valjean, and was now making connections between things that weren’t very much related to each other at all. At least he hadn’t descended down to the level of metaphors.

Turning away as the kids filed out of the obstacle course plus target practice arena – set in the basement of the Hôtel with thick soundproofed walls – he reset the simulations back to their default settings. It was only when the holograms had all darkened and the fluorescent lights turned on that he looked at his visitor.

“M. le Secrétaire,” he greeted, inclining his head.

Verdier snorted, peeling himself away from the doorframe he had been leaning against. “Don’t call me that when you’re the one who convinced our dear Préfect to give me the job,” he said dryly.

Javert shrugged. “It’s your title.”

“If that’s how you want to play it…” Verdier’s eyes narrowed. Then he swept down into a deep, low bow. “Good afternoon, M. Surveillant Général de l’Ecole Nationale Supérieure de la Police,” he drawled, lips quirking to the side. “M. ‘You outrank me any day, you fucking bastard’.”

Stifling the instinctive flinch at the sound of his overly long and officious job title – there was a good reason why he made all of the students and staff here just call him ‘Javert’, or ‘M. Javert’ if they really had to – he raised an eyebrow. “So do the students meet your expectations?”

“No idea,” Verdier said. “The cases they went through just now were pretty clear-cut.”

“They’re only just starting out,” Javert told him dryly.

“You’re just giving them a false image about how easy the job is.”

“Look,” Javert said impatiently. “Do you want new recruits or do you want to scare them _all_ away?”

Verdier stared at him for a moment before he threw his head back and laughed, shaking his head. “This from the man that M. Chabouillet decided to not assign any rookies to because he made them all quit within their first month,” he said, sounding so amused that Javert’s eyebrow twitched with instinctive irritation.

“What the hell changed?”

 _Valjean_ , Javert wanted to say. But he didn’t think Verdier would understand that particular answer: he might respect the man, and had worked with him through the years, but he wouldn’t exactly call him a friend. 

Instead, he shrugged again. “It’s a different thing when you have students instead of actual officers,” he said. “They have two years to get used to the thought of being out on the streets instead of just a couple of hours.” He paused. “Or a few days.”

“Maybe the better question is,” Verdier said slowly, “when the hell did you start caring about suiting your objectives to the people around you?”

“When have I ever done whatever I want instead of what I need to?” Javert countered.

“Whatever you needed to do was generally what you wanted,” the other man said, so quickly that Javert blinked rapidly, stunned into silence despite himself. 

It took him a moment before he realised that was true. He knew he had changed; knew that he wasn’t the man he’d used to be. Most of the time, he was glad about that. Sometimes, he even allowed himself to be proud. But it still took him by surprise when someone else pointed it out.

His silence made Verdier shift from one foot to another for a moment, crossing his arms as he leaned against the wall. His eyes didn’t leave Javert’s as he continued, “Don’t get me wrong: I don’t think it’s wrong, what you’re doing. Chabouillet showed me the curriculum you planned, and you’re pretty much making my job so much easier. It’s just a surprise, that’s all.”

“M. Chabouillet,” Javert corrected absentmindedly. His eyes focused back on Verdier’s, who was smirking for some reason. He shook his head. “What’s so surprising?”

“Just when I thought you’re done changing from who you were, you pull another trick that shows me the error of my ways,” Verdier said, dryly. “And now I can’t even have the easy excuse of the collar as a reason.”

Javert resisted the urge to reach up to his neck and tug on the silver chain. He shoved his hands into his pockets instead. “It has never been because of the collar,” he said honestly.

“Yeah, but what the reason is, that’s the question,” Verdier replied. Before Javert could even open his mouth, he held up a hand. “Don’t tell me; I want to figure it out by myself.”

Narrowing his eyes, Javert said: “You know what’s really damned annoying about you?” 

“What?”

“You treat everything like a bloody investigation,” he said, not even bothering to restrain himself from clipping the ends of his words. “Every single person around you like a puzzle you want to pull apart to solve.”

Verdier laughed. “That’s what made me good enough at my job to get the one I have now.”

“No,” Javert refuted, shaking his head. “It’s the reason why M. Chabouillet didn’t want to give you the job in the first place. You make for a shit leader when you don’t treat people like people.”

Blinking, Verdier fell silent. Slowly, he cocked his head to the side. “You see,” he said, every word deliberate. “This is why you keep surprising me, and why I keep trying to, in your words, pull you apart to solve. Because you just said something that you wouldn’t have even _thought about_ years ago.”

“It’s been ten years,” Javert waved a hand. “And you’re going off the topic.”

“I’m on probation,” Verdier told him dryly, and Javert blinked because he hadn’t known _that_. “Chabouillet – sorry, _Monsieur Chabouillet_ – said that this habit of mine is only a good thing if I know how to adjust my behaviour according to what I figure out, so I’ll get kicked out of the job if I don’t.”

“Have you?”

“Apparently not, given what you said,” Verdier shrugged. He looked so supremely unconcerned that Javert’s eyebrow twitched again. But before he could say a word, Verdier smiled, lopsided and crooked, his eyes shining with a light that Javert had never seen on this man’s face.

“Want to know why I keep trying to figure _you_ out?”

“You’ll tell me even if I don’t.”

“Not really,” Verdier said. His eyes skirted away from Javert’s, staring at the wall of the arena. “It’d save me the trouble of trying to put it into words.”

Javert considered that. He took in Verdier’s posture – the arms hanging tense by his side, the hunched shoulders – and realised that the man hadn’t come here just to heckle him and boast about his promotion.

“Tell me.”

Verdier sighed. He didn’t speak for long moments, still staring at the wall. But Javert had learned patience a long time ago, so he only sat on top of the control desk of the room, hooking one ankle over the other as he waited.

“I’m trying to figure out why you changed so I can figure out the how, I guess,” Verdier said finally. “I know that it’s been more than ten bloody years since the trial changed everything; I know that things changed damned slow compared to how they could have. But…”

He shrugged. “Old dog, new tricks,” he said, one hand waving ambiguously in the air. He finally turned back to look at Javert. “You worked longer than I did, and you held onto those principles even longer than I did. But you made changing look so fucking easy.”

Javert stared. Was _this_ what Verdier thought? Was this what people thought about him? That it was _easy_ for him to have his entire world turned upside down, to have to adjust to such a shift in perspectives? 

“It wasn’t easy,” he said, swallowing back _I didn’t change all that much_ because that wasn’t for Verdier to know. It wasn’t for anyone but him to know that all that changed was that he shifted from looking to the law and authorities for guidance to looking to Valjean, though he suspected the man himself knew that.

“But it’s…” he hesitated for a moment before he gave up trying to find the right words. Whatever he had would just have to do. “It was necessary. It’s still necessary. What I feel or think or went through… none of that matters. It’s my duty.”

“As what?” Verdier asked, the words practically tripping out of him.

 _A person_ , Javert wanted to say. But Verdier wouldn’t understand that. “As a police officer,” he said instead. “You might say that it’s the law courts that decide a person’s fate, but it’s us who make the decisions about whose fate can be decided by a bunch of words in the first place.”

Those were words he gave his students, most or even all of whom held very strange ideas about what being part of the police entailed. To give them to Verdier… they tasted strange in his mouth.

“See, that’s something I thought you’d say,” Verdier said wryly. “But it’s not very helpful, because I can’t do the same thing. I care too damned much about myself to give up everything for the sake of duty like you can.”

“Then looking to me for answers is a terrible idea,” Javert pointed out. “Only you can give you the answers you need about trying to change.”

Even as he said those words, he wanted to laugh. Look at him, being a hypocrite all over again: he knew perfectly well that it wasn’t just duty that helped him pave a better road towards figuring out where he fitted in this changing world. 

But he refused to touch the chain. He refused to even say Valjean’s name out loud in front of Verdier, especially since there was no point. There was only one Valjean, and Javert was too selfish to share him.

Funny how selfishness had become a thing of pride when it came to Valjean, when he would have half-destroyed himself for even thinking of that word before. It seemed that Javert would never run out of ways to marvel at Valjean’s presence in his life. Even though he never seemed to be able to find the right words to describe them.

“Guess so,” Verdier sighed. His eyes met Javert’s for another moment before he huffed out a quiet laugh. “I should let you go instead of stalling you here to listen to an old man’s problems.”

“I don’t mind,” Javert said automatically. A second later, he realised that he hadn’t said those words out of some kind of forced politeness; he meant them. 

He shrugged to try to get rid of the vague feeling of discomfort. “Problems of old men aren’t very different from the problems of young ones,” he said. “You’re helping me practice.”

Verdier laughed, straightening again as he shoved his thumbs into his pockets. “I can’t even begin to imagine you playing Aunt Agony to these kids,” he grinned. “So I’ll have to take your word for it.”

“For reasons I can’t bloody fathom, some of them think that I can actually help,” Javert said wryly.

Laughing again, Verdier turned to leave. He paused before exiting the arena, however, one hand on the doorframe. Javert lifted his head from where he was starting to look through the list of simulation programmes.

“Pass my condolences to M. Pontmercy, won’t you?” Verdier asked.

Javert stilled. Of _course_ the Secretary of the Prefect would have heard about that, even if Marius had been doing his damned best to keep the press and the media from getting hold of that particular piece of news. He stared down at the control desk for a moment, hands splaying outwards until he could see tiny ripples appearing on the screen.

“That’s a little premature,” he said.

“I probably won’t have the time to drop by when the time is right,” Verdier said, and his eyes were dark and solemn. “I’m leaving you to decide when to pass them.”

“He’ll appreciate it,” Javert said, and choked back laughter. Marius _would_ , even though Javert didn’t think there was any merit in empty, hollow words like these.

But Verdier nodded anyway. He looked at Javert for another moment before he left. Javert watched until he disappeared around the corner before turning back to the simulation programmes.

Maybe he was fussing with them because he was trying to put off what he promised to do today. Maybe he was even thinking about the past in hope of searching for some kind of answers he could give later on.

When Javert was sixteen, he received the email telling him of his mother’s death in prison.

But it wasn’t the same. Dammit, nothing had ever been even similar enough for him to be able to give the answers he knew Marius would crave.

When the hell did he begin caring about that idiot lawyer enough to even want to give him such things?

*

It was nearly sunset by the time Javert gave up trying to edit the simulation programmes by himself and left scribbled notes for some of the younger people to make the changes for him instead. 

He made his way out of the Hôtel and headed for Saint-Germain. Instead of going towards Rue Plumet, he turned the other direction and went towards Frey’s school. 

That description was a bit of a misnomer nowadays: Frey was far too busy to actually teach, even though he had tried his best to juggle his schedule during his first couple of months as Minister of Education. Valjean headed the school nowadays, and spent most of his time there now that the Shelter had gained enough publicity that they were no longer short on volunteers.

The boards that used to crisscross the windows of the school had been removed, replaced by actual glass. The frames, too, had been remade such that pieces of them didn’t look as if they were in danger of falling off and killing an unsuspecting bystander. The roof tiles were now all in a uniform colour – a blue in the same shade as that in the tricolor. Javert suspected that it was only Azelma's good sense that convinced Frey that having the tiles be a replica of the flag of France was a terrible idea.

But there was still paint peeling off the walls. When Javert went inside, the tables and chairs were still mismatched, the boards weren’t electronic, and the books were still old, with dust jackets close to falling apart. At least the heating was upgraded enough that Javert needed to take off his leather jacket and hang it over his arm.

Frey announced that his school was a political statement when he was first inaugurated as the Education Minister. He stated that, as the country’s education system improved, the school would as well. Every single time he made improvements to the school, it was absolutely flooded with vultures trying to figure out just _what_ that improvement corresponded to in terms of his new policies.

Frankly, Javert thought the whole thing to be a pretentious farce.

It was Wednesday, so Valjean would be having his advanced French Literature class now. Javert knew the school’s layout well enough to head directly towards that classroom, ignoring some of the students who still took a double-take when they saw him even though he had been here dozens of times.

Here was another change: the school hadn’t gotten larger, but there were more than enough teachers and classes going on that every classroom was filled with the sound of voices whenever it was open. Once, Javert could count his footsteps by the echoes they made down the hallway: now, whatever sound his feet made was drowned out by Valjean’s voice.

“Adaptations serve as a pretty good way for us to examine the values that concerned those of the past,” Valjean was saying, the walls still thin enough for his voice to echo. “Not just in the parts that are chosen for dramatization, but also the characters seen to be important, the way relationships are portrayed, or even the work put into parts of the movie.”

Javert stopped at the door of the classroom, leaning against the frame with his hands shoved inside his pockets. 

Valjean was standing beside the worn, wooden teacher’s desk, gesticulating towards the screen where three white men were standing against a backdrop of a really lavish castle. When he spotted Javert, he smiled before turning his attention back to the students so swiftly that they didn’t even realise that Javert was there.

“Before you come next week, I need you to prepare a list on what you think this particular adaptation of Dumas’s work focused on, and what it is that they left out,” Valjean instructed. “Remember that this is a movie from 2011. Even if it’s not particularly famous and well-known, it _was_ made in the Americas during the time when their media and values were the held in the highest regard globally.”

“Any themes you’d like us to focus on, Monsieur?”

“Whatever you find important enough to pick out,” Valjean said, smiling. “Class dismissed.”

Javert strode to the front of the class as the students began to pack up and chatter amongst themselves. Some of them nodded towards him when they saw him out of the corner of their eyes, but most ignored him – they had gotten too used to him being here throughout the whole time they were in the school that it wasn’t a special occasion anymore.

“I still say that I would’ve hated you as a teacher,” Javert said once he knew that Valjean could hear him over the din. 

Valjean, in the middle of switching off the outdated projector, laughed. He reached over and brushed his hand over Javert’s, his lips curved into a smile. “Because my instructions are too vague?”

“You’re asking for _opinions_ ,” Javert said, mock-offended. “That’s not what a teacher is supposed to do.”

Lifting his eyebrow, Valjean said, in the same tone, “Oh, yes, and _your_ students just have to follow your judgments when looking at case studies.”

“They’re not students,” Javert snorted. “They’re recruits. It’s a different thing.”

“That’s not exactly my point,” Valjean said mildly.

“Recruits get thrown out of my class if they parrot my opinions,” Javert said. His lips quirked up into a small smirk. “Hey, I said that I _would have_.”

Chuckling softly, Valjean shot him a smile. Javert tried to not flush, or lean in to kiss those curved lips, or do anything that would be inappropriate outside the privacy of their house, their room.

“Ready to go?” he asked when he regained full control over himself.

Valjean’s hands stilled from where they were neatening up the teacher’s desk more than it needed neatening. He flattened them on top of the wood, closing his eyes. A quiet, inarticulate sound escaped from his throat. 

Before he could say anything – most likely something terribly foolish and self-deprecating like how he shouldn’t even be caught up in so much sorrow for a man he barely knew – Javert reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“We don’t have to,” he said quietly. “I can always call Cosette and tell her that we’re not coming today.” Surely they could be excused – they had gone every single day since they received the news.

“No,” Valjean said, eyes still shut. He shook his head. “We can’t. Both Marius and Cosette need…” he fell silent.

Javert knew too well by now that Valjean was suffering like this because he didn’t know what it was he could give the two young people who were grieving like this; because there wasn’t anything he could do to ease their pain. 

He swore silently in his head, not even knowing who to direct those words towards. The usual targets didn’t make sense. Not even cursing death did, because it was surely long past time for that dark shadow to introduce itself to that particular man.

“Well,” he said, trying to keep his voice light. “Hopefully he’ll be lucid today?” Despite his efforts, he couldn’t flatten the question mark into a period.

Valjean nodded. When he turned towards Javert, his eyes were dark, the lines at the edges carved deep with sorrow. “I hope so too. Marius and Cosette deserve that.”

Honestly, Javert had no idea what people deserved in a situation such as this. So he shrugged instead of saying anything, squeezing Valjean’s shoulder in some vague hope of offering comfort.

After a moment, Valjean straightened. He ran his hand over his head before he rested it on top of Javert’s, their fingers tangling together for a moment before he smiled, shaky and uncertain but definitely sincere.

“Let’s go,” he said.

Javert wanted to protest. He wanted to say that there was no need for Valjean to inflict pain on himself like this by looking at those whose pain he could not assuage. But he knew, too, that Valjean wouldn’t accept that; that staying away would cause him just as much pain, if not even more.

So he said nothing. Instead, he stepped backwards, giving Valjean space to gather himself further. He didn’t shove his hands into his pockets because he knew that Valjean could read him too easily, and Javert’s needs and opinions didn’t matter. Not right now; not about this.

When Valjean smiled at him a minute or so later, it looked less shaky, less edged with pain. Javert tried to not hold onto the quiet satisfaction he felt at that.

They headed out of the classroom and the school together.

***

The hospital was newly-built, made of stones imported from the coast, with plenty of windows. Azelma had it painted yellow on the outside in hopes of offering some kind of cheer, but Javert always thought that to be a vain effort. Whatever cheer the colour might offer was entirely stripped away the moment one stepped through the glass door and took in their first breath of antiseptic and death.

Years ago, during one of their meandering conversations while Javert was stuck in a bed in another hospital, Valjean said that it was practically unreasonable for there to not be technology that could cleanse hospitals of their now-characteristic stench. He went on to wonder if it was a deliberate effort, if a hospital that did not smell of antiseptic and death was not one people would trust. 

Javert had no answer then, and he still had none now. He just knew that he hated the very concept of hospitals, and no changes made on the insides or the outsides would ever alleviate that.

The nurses and orderlies knew them by now, so Javert only needed to nod towards the one stationed at the reception before they were allowed to pass unmolested to the ward. He watched Valjean out of the corner of his eyes: the man’s posture was stiff as he stared straight ahead, his hands twitching by his sides.

They found Marius standing in front of a vending machine. His hand was frozen in mid-air, fingers curled inwards as if to press onto one of the blinking buttons. His beard was as unkempt as it had looked for the past week, and his hair had grown long enough to start falling into his eyes and over his ears.

Valjean started forward, but stilled when Javert placed a hand on his wrist. They exchanged a glance. Then Valjean nodded, and Javert strode forward. He stepped by Marius’s side, close enough to have their arms touching, before he gripped the frozen hand and shoved it towards the machine.

A _beep_ sounded. Marius jerked, shuddering from head to toe. He blinked, eyes clearing from hollow blankness back to some kind of life. He stared at the machine as if he couldn’t understand why it was making sound, then turned his head slowly to the side. He looked at Javert as if he registered his presence, but didn’t know why he was there.

Javert ignored him. He swiped the coffee when it was pushed out of the machine’s slot, and held it out. Marius blinked a couple of times, and Javert raised the cup further, practically shoving it against the kid’s mouth.

Finally, Marius understood. He took the cup and drank the scalding liquid in one shot, knocking it back as if it was whiskey.

“Fuck,” he swore, his voice sounding hoarse and raspy. “Fuck, that’s fucking hot.”

“Language,” Javert drawled. He shoved his hands into his pockets.

Sometime during their ridiculous show, Valjean approached. He carefully stepped into Marius’s view of vision before he placed a hand on his arm.

“Go home, Marius,” he said quietly. “Go look after your children.”

“They’re with Azelma and Mathieu,” Marius said. “Azelma said that since Michel and Élise are pretty much the same age, it’s easy enough to take care of them both. And Jeanne can help her, and she’s pretty good friends with Nicolas anyway.”

The words poured out of him in a flood, practically tripping over each other. If only the world could see the well-spoken lawyer they exalted now. Javert sighed.

“How long has it been since you saw them?”

“Mathieu brought all of them over this morning,” Marius answered. He spoke as if by rote.

“Outside of here,” Valjean clarified before Javert could. “When is the last time you have been _home_ , Marius?”

Marius blinked again. He stared at Valjean as if he didn’t understand what he meant, as if ‘home’ had become an alien word within the past week.

“I can’t…” he started, voice creaking. He closed his eyes, the paper coffee cup crumpling in his hand. “It’s not… I can’t… If I go back there I’ll just remember that he’s here and he should be back there, and…”

He fell silent.

 _Dammit._ Javert suspected that was the answer to this precise question that he had wanted to ask for the past couple of weeks. Marius and Cosette had moved in with the old man after their marriage – because, as Cosette had put it, buying and refurbishing a new house would take up money they could have used for the revolution – and now that M. Gillenormand was stuck here in his hospital bed…

Glancing towards Valjean, Javert made a decision. Before Valjean could reach forward to Marius, Javert extended a hand, fingers splayed open, and smacked Marius right across the face with a blow that was meant to stun instead of hurt.

Marius’s head snapped to the side, but he didn’t make a single sound. Valjean opened his mouth, but Javert shook his head before he could protest.

“Look at me,” he barked.

When Marius didn’t move, Javert closed his hand into a fist. He used his knuckles to press against Marius’s jaw, pushing his head sideways until those dark, hollowed eyes are meeting his.

“In what year was M. Gillenormand born?”

“2037,” Marius replied automatically. His eyes started to brighten with some kind of vague confusion.

“So how old is he this year?”

“Hundred and nine.”

“Has he lived a very long time?”

Marius’s throat bobbed. Javert suspected that the boy was starting to realise what he was getting at, but Marius nodded, nonetheless. “Yes.”

“Do you think he has lived a happy life?”

“May… be…?”

“That’s not a good answer,” Javert snorted. “Try again.”

Taking a deep breath, Marius tried to close his eyes. Javert dug his knuckles into the boy’s jaw until they snapped back open.

“He did,” he said, voice weak as a whisper. “He did.”

“Have you made him happy for the past few years?”

Marius hesitated again. Javert waited until the answer came: “I… I think I did.”

“Try again.”

“I did,” Marius said shakily. “I did.”

Javert nodded. He let a few seconds past before dealing the final blow: “Why are you in pieces over a death that’s not only expected, but is just a suitable end to a good life?”

“I,” Marius started. He faltered. When he tried to turn away, to back away, Javert shifted his hand, gripping onto the jaw and pulling him even closer, his eyes narrowing and boring into Marius’s own.

“Answer my question,” he said, voice pitched low.

“He’s not supposed to die,” Marius said, and there was something achingly helpless in his voice. He shuddered hard, eyes squeezing shut.

“If Grandfather dies, then… everybody dies. Everyone around me will die. You and Cosette and Papa and….” He choked on his words, on his breath.

Javert released him, stepping backwards. Valjean took it as his cue, taking Javert’s place and wrapping his arms around Marius’s slowly-shuddering frame, pulling the boy into his arms. Marius gasped, sounding like a drowning man taking a much-needed breath, and clung tightly onto Valjean’s shoulders, leaning his full weight on him. Javert watched them for a moment before he crossed over to the other side of the hallway, leaning against the wall as he watched.

Honestly, Javert should have done this weeks ago. No, he amended the thought as Marius’s hands dug into Valjean’s sleeves, he couldn’t have. Even yesterday, Marius had been able to still put on that façade of holding together. But now…

Well, Javert knew enough about staring blankly into space, about a mind blanking entirely without warning, to know what was necessary to restore _some_ kind of equilibrium. He knew enough about breaking to understand that holding onto the broken pieces desperately will only end up with blood and pain.

All he had done, all he could do, was to provide the last blow to force Marius to shatter entirely. Everything else… putting Marius back together… that wasn’t up to him.

“Thank you.”

Javert jerked, instinctively moving into a defensive position as he turned. It took him a couple of seconds – how much had he sunk into his thoughts, dammit? – before he realised that it was _Cosette_ who was standing there.

He took in the sight of her: red-rimmed eyes behind her glasses, her hair haphazardly pinned into a bun with strands falling all over her face, the same dress as yesterday, and deep exhaustion carved into every single line of her form.

“You look like shit,” he told her.

She started. Javert waited, and watched, and a dozen different emotions flashed across her eyes at the same time. Then she seemed to come to a decision: she threw her head back and laughed.

“I’d ask why you seem to take death so lightly,” she said, shoulders still shaking, “but I think I already know the answer, Monsieur.”

Javert ran a hand over his hair, shrugging. He didn’t even try to deny that he took death lightly – it would be a losing battle, and one he wasn’t even interested in engaging – and she was sharp enough to deduce the answer without having to tell her anyway.

Briefly, he wondered if Cosette would be able to give Verdier the training he needed. If there was anyone who could peel a person apart like a puzzle and still have room in her heart to feel for them, it was Cosette.

He stowed that idea away for further consideration later, meeting Cosette’s eyes again.

“Probably,” he said. Then he cocked his head. “Why aren’t you pissed that I essentially made your husband cry?”

Shifting, she leaned against the wall and turned her gaze back towards Marius and Valjean. They were both on their knees now, Marius sniffling quietly as Valjean spoke to him in a voice so low that Javert couldn’t hear a word. He didn’t need to, he decided, and chose to watch the opening of the hallway for anyone who might intrude upon them now.

“Well,” Cosette said, her voice contemplative. “It’s because you’ve done what Papa, Grandfather, and me put together couldn’t.”

Her smile was wide enough for Javert to see even without turning his head. “You got Marius to admit to what is really bothering him.”

“Not that hard,” Javert dismissed. “He was close enough to announcing it to the world already. I just gave him a little push.”

He could tell that Cosette was looking at him, but he didn’t turn around: he already knew what she would say, and that whatever conversation might occur between them about his supposed self-deprecation would just be fruitless. Neither of them would end up convincing the other.

Cosette seemed to understand that too, because she only huffed out a quiet laugh. They stood there in silence for long moments: Javert watching the door, Cosette her father as he comforted her husband. 

It took Javert two minutes to realise that the twitching discomfort he felt was at the fact that there wasn’t any: there was something almost _serene_ about what was happening at the moment. Marius was still wiping his eyes, but the sound of his and Valjean’s voices were soft, not nearly enough to break the calm that settled between them. And though Cosette was glancing towards him, there was something almost rhythmic about the shifting weights of her gaze.

This is not supposed to happen in a hospital. No, that was ridiculous; that wasn’t why he was so perturbed. This… this wasn’t supposed to happen to _him_.

Not outside his and Valjean’s house, during the evenings they had alone.

He was still trying to detangle his thoughts from that particular knot when Marius started to stand up. Cosette left her post at the wall to go over to her husband, drawing him into an embrace and kissing his forehead. Javert watched them, and wondered just when he’d stopped feeling like a damned voyeur whenever they did things like that in front of him.

“Grandfather is awake,” Cosette said, looking from one man to the next in succession. “And he wants to see you.”

Marius sucked in a breath. “He’s… he’s strong enough to speak?”

Cosette smiled. “Mm,” she nodded. “The doctors are checking up on him, and he was already complaining about them when I left.”

The laugh that escaped Marius was shaky, but definitely sincere. Javert fought down an instinctive smile.

Settling into a slightly more comfortable pose against the wall, he shrugged. “I’ll just wait here, then.”

“No,” Cosette shook her head. There was an inexplicable mirth in her eyes. “You’re included in ‘you’, M. Javert.”

“What?” Javert blinked.

“He wants to see you too,” Cosette clarified.

“ _Why_?”

“Because,” Cosette said, her lips curving upwards, “you’re part of our family, Monsieur.”

Javert stilled. “But—”

“You can’t deny an old man his request,” Cosette interrupted. 

Javert opened his mouth, then closed it. True enough. And it was even truer that he certainly couldn’t deny a dying man’s. 

Valjean was smiling at him crookedly with his eyes bright, and Javert tried to not think about the reasons behind that. Or his inability to even protest against Cosette’s surely-ludicrous claim.

Sighing, he rubbed the back of his neck as he pushed away from the wall. “Let’s go then.”

As always, M. Gillenormand’s hospital room – his _ward_ – smelled even worse of antiseptic and approaching death. The man looked tiny amidst the large swathes of blankets, the wires surrounding him, and the tubes inserted his skin. But, unlike Javert’s previous visit, those light eyes were bright, and he was sitting up. When Marius sat down on the bed, his gaze lit up even further, and his pale lips stretched into a smile.

“Come here, my boy,” he beckoned.

Gone was the strong, near-booming voice. In its place was a thready whisper more suited for a weak man than the strength and vitality M. Gillenormand had always showed. But his hand was steady in the air, and his grip looked strong when he clenched his fingers around Marius’s hand.

Javert retreated to the corner of the room, crossing his arms and trying to make himself as inconspicuous as possible without hunching. With his height, that would just make him even more obvious.

“Have I told you yet that how proud I am of you?” M. Gillenormand told Marius, smiling. His mouth showing gaps where even his implants had fallen out.

“Grandfather,” Marius started.

“Shh,” the old man shook his head. “I know what you want to say, my boy, but answer the question. This old man’s memory is going.”

“You…” Marius swallowed. “You never said, but I… I know.”

“Well,” M. Gillenormand huffed. “That will never do.”

He turned his eyes towards Cosette, and beckoned her forward as well. She took a seat on the other side of the bed, taking M. Gillenormand’s other hand. At the same time, Valjean walked over to Javert, leaning against the wall next to him.

“We should go,” Javert murmured out of the corner of his mouth. After a moment, he corrected himself. “ _I_ should go.”

Valjean shook his head. His hand reached out, gently curling around Javert’s elbow. “Stay,” he said, voice just as soft.

 _I don’t belong here_ , Javert wanted to protest. _I’ve already done whatever it is I can do, so there’s no reason for me to stay_.

But Valjean was looking at him with those soft, imploring eyes, and Javert’s words died in his throat. He swallowed, nodding. Somehow, his hand managed to find Valjean’s, resting on top of his. Valjean squeezed his arm lightly. 

As always, the warmth of Valjean’s skin, the solidity of his form, helped him to breathe again. Javert counted the next couple of breaths before he focused his attention back to the bed.

“I don’t remember the breakout of the civil wars,” M. Gillenormand was saying. “But my earliest memories were living through them. I remember watching as the country splintered and the different provinces began to secede.” His smile widened, and he shook his head. “You know, my boy, I grew up wishing for a united France and thinking it to be a pipe dream.”

“Grandfather,” Marius started again, but he fell silent when M. Gillenormand squeezed his hand.

“The only time I saw a united France was when Charles managed to conquer all of the different territories and restore Paris back to being a capital city of a country instead of a small province.” The old man chuckled. “He was everyone’s hero, Marius. I fought in the unification wars, and I saw the mistakes he made during some of the battles… but I still saw him as a hero, and could harbour no criticisms against him.”

He fell silent. Cosette turned around, taking a glass of water from the nightstand and offering it to the old man. He sipped from it, smiling at her, before turning his attentions back to them both.

“You were the ones who showed me the way,” he continued, and there was a trace of wonder in his tone. As if the years he had had to get used to the idea were still not enough. “You made me realise that a France united on a map was not a real France.”

Hesitating, he squeezed Cosette’s hand for a moment before he reached out towards Marius, brushing his wrinkled hand over the boy’s cheek.

“Forgive this old man’s obstinacy, Marius: I still see Charles as a hero. But his ways are not always the righteous ways.” 

“I don’t… You don’t…” Marius shook his head, grabbing onto his grandfather’s wrist and pressing his face against it. “You don’t have to apologise.”

“Oh, but I do,” M. Gillenormand chuckled. He sobered almost immediately, though a smile lingered on his lips. “If not for the views I still hold now, then for all I did to you.”

“You raised me, Grandfather,” Marius said, voice choked.

“So I did,” M. Gillenormand nodded. “But I kept your father from you, Marius. I tried to make you think the way I did. When you developed a mind of your own, I threw you out of your home instead of celebrating like I should.”

Well, that was far more information about Marius than Javert had ever had. He forcefully stifled the urge to shift uncomfortably on his feet, squeezing Valjean’s hand on his arm instead.

“That’s long ago, Grandfather,” Marius shook his head. “When- when I came back, you listened to me. You listened to Cosette. That’s…” He pressed his face harder against M. Gillenormand’s hand.

“I should thank you for that instead.”

“Nonsense,” M. Gillenormand huffed. “Come now, my boy. You lectured the country that listening is the most basic of decencies that could be extended towards a stranger. So why should I be thanked for finally extending that to my grandson? To my family?”

“That’s- I-” Marius floundered, clearly poleaxed.

Cosette laughed quietly. She scooted up the bed, leaning lightly against M. Gillenormand’s shoulder. “What Marius means to say, Grandfather,” she murmurs, “is that he has forgiven you long ago, and that he loves you a great deal.”

“Ah, Cosette,” M. Gillenormand said, turning towards her. He looked at her as if he had forgotten that she was there. Given that Javert had read the medical reports that stated that M. Gillenormand’s eyes were starting to go, he wouldn’t be surprised if the old man had.

“I’m terribly proud to have you call me ‘Grandfather’, sweet girl,” he said, his hand leaving Marius’s cheek to tuck a strand of hair behind Cosette’s ear. “A clever, accomplished woman like you who has done so much…”

Ducking her head down, Cosette blushed. “Grandfather, please,” she whined exaggeratedly. “You’re embarrassing me.”

M. Gillenormand laughed, and Cosette tipped her head back up, smiling. He brushed her cheek with his hand again. “You have taught me so much,” he said, and there was that awe in his voice again. He looked from Cosette to Marius, and his smile turned shaky at the edges.

“You have taught an old man so much when he thought he was beyond learning.”

“No,” Marius denied fiercely. “No, you never were, Grandfather. There’s… there’s still so much that you can learn. There’s still so much _more_ …”

“Shh.”

Marius fell back silent, lowering his head. His too-long hair cast shadows across his eyes.

“Messieurs,” M. Gillenormand raised his voice, his eyes turning from one side of the room to another. “M. Valjean, M. Javert, are you both here?”

Javert froze. Valjean, thankfully, was far more lucid, because he started forward, not letting go of Javert and thus dragging him along as well. Javert simply had to try to not stumble as they stopped right next to the bed.

“We’re here, sir,” Valjean said.

“How many times must I tell you to not call me sir?” M. Gillenormand shook his head.

“At least once more.” Valjean paused. “Sir.”

M. Gillenormand chuckled. His eyes shifted from Valjean, scanning the room again. “M. Javert?”

“Here,” Javert replied automatically, his tone crisp like he was responding to a roll call. He cleared his throat. “I’m here, sir.”

“You as well!” the old man exclaimed.

“With age comes seniority and respect, sir,” Javert replied.

“I’m not sure if I deserve such a thing from the two of you,” M. Gillenormand said. He raised a hand before either of them could protest. “But I must shamelessly make use of it: I have a favour to ask of the two of you.”

Javert blinked. He exchanged a glance with Valjean, who shrugged.

“What is it?” Valjean asked.

“Take care of these two young people for me,” M. Gillenormand said, squeezing Cosette and Marius’s hands. “I know that I have little right to ask this of you, given that I know you so little, and I know that your love for them will fulfil this mission. But I have to ask, nonetheless.”

“No,” Valjean blurted. Then he shook his head so much that it became a blur. “I mean- of course you have the right to ask this of us, sir. Of course we will- we will do our best to take care of them.”

Javert, for his part, was struck completely dumb. Of all the reasons he expected when he was asked to come in here, _this_ was the last. Looking at Marius’s and Cosette’s expressions, he realised he wasn’t the only one.

He cleared his throat again, and tried to force some words out. “We’ll take care of them,” he said, and cursed himself for his inanity.

“Grandfather,” Marius choked out. “Please- please don’t say such things. If Cosette and I need taking care of, then surely you can still…”

M. Gillenormand threw his head back and roared with laughter, the sound reverberating off the pale blue walls of the private ward.

“Oh, my boy,” he said, shaking his head. “I have known what death looks like ever since the wars, and he’s staring me right now in the face.”

His smile widened even further, and he gave another soft chuckle. “I made a bargain with him,” he said lightly. “In return for having time to speak to you like this, I promised that I won’t fight too hard when he decides that my time is up.”

He patted Marius’s hand, then Cosette’s cheek. “I have lived for a very long time,” he continued. “I have seen far more than most ever will, and been given far more than anyone deserves. If I have any regrets, it is that I did not appreciate much of it until the past ten years.”

Before Marius and Cosette could speak – and Javert could tell that they wished to; both of them were practically trembling with words held back – M. Gillenormand laughed again.

“But I did have thirteen years of having both of you truly at my side,” he said. “That’s more than most would receive, too.”

“Grandfather,” Marius started. That word seemed to be the only one left in his vocabulary, because he shook his head, unable to continue, as if all of the words he wanted to say were all crowded in his throat and he could not choose which to say first.

It was Cosette who made the decision for him in the end: she pulled Marius close, and dragged both of them forward until they were enveloping M. Gillenormand in their arms. She buried her face into one thin shoulder. Her breaths came out as tiny, hitching sobs.

Javert tightened his grip on Valjean’s hand as he started forward, instinctively wanting to comfort. He shook his head when those dark eyes turned towards him, jerking his head towards the door.

The two of them left the young people with their Grandfather. The last sight Javert took was this: M. Gillenormand holding his grandson and granddaughter in his arms, smiling as he kissed their hair over and over, their hands touching every part of his body as much as they could while being careful to not hurt him at the same time.

Once he was outside, Javert leaned against the door, closing his eyes. He dragged a hand through his hair, trying to calm himself. It was ridiculous – he barely knew M. Gillenormand, so why…

“Are you still confused about why he asked to speak to you?”

Javert blinked. His vision took a moment to focus on Valjean’s face, and he huffed out an almost-laugh at the raised eyebrow he saw.

“I know what you’re going to say, but…” His hand slipped beneath his shirt without noticing, curling around the silver chain there and tugging lightly on it. “I’m not… I’m just…”

He took a deep breath. “I’m just yours, that’s all.

“It’s not contradictory,” Valjean said, and it was such a non-sequitur that Javert could only stare blankly at him.

Valjean laughed, soft and quiet and shivery, before he curled his fingers around Javert’s, around the chain. “Just because you’re mine doesn’t mean that other people can’t claim you as well,” he explained. “In very different ways, of course, but it’s a claim that’s still valid.”

Javert blinked. “I…” he faltered, and shook his head. His head was empty.

Brushing his rough fingers over Javert’s cheek, Valjean smiled. “What you feel towards others don’t have to take away from what you feel for me,” Valjean continued. “You _can_ feel affection for them, you can want to do something for them, without needing to justify it as something necessary for you to do. Something you can do.”

“How…” Javert croaked. His hand trembled as he reached out towards Valjean. “How do you… how do you even…?”

He couldn’t even say it, these simple words: _How do you know me so well that you put into words reassurances for fears I don’t even know I have?_

“I know you,” Valjean said simply. He caught Javert’s hand in mid-air, bending the fingers before kissing the back of them.

“Heart of my heart, soul of my soul – how can I _not_?”

Javert was struck speechless once more. Those… those words were new. That was _poetry_ , slipping so easily from Valjean’s lips, and Javert could barely scramble enough presence of mind to catch them, those words that were more precious than gold and jewels together.

He closed his eyes, leaning forward. “How…” he choked out. “How did I get so lucky to be yours?”

Years had passed, and still Javert was a fool who could not say: _to have you_. Not when having Valjean – trapping him, restricting him – still gave him nightmares.

“You gave yourself to me, freely and wholly,” Valjean told him, tipping his head up so that their foreheads met. “Don’t underestimate the gift _you_ gave _me_ , Javert.”

That was not an order, but… Javert licked his dry lips. “I’ll try,” he said.

“I know,” Valjean said.

They stayed like this for long moments. Javert knew they shouldn’t – this hallway didn’t only have M. Gillenormand’s room, but others as well. But he couldn’t care about the dangers of being seen now. Not when he could feel Valjean’s breath on his lips; not when the warmth of the man was seeping through his clothes and skin, surrounding and enveloping him.

He remembered, at last, the greatest difference between his attempts to figure out his first prison uniform and those of the academy: for the first, he did it alone; for the second…

For a man who gave up his own family and threw them to the wolves, he somehow managed to find another. A different form, forward and sideways instead of backwards into the past, but the truth was still that he didn’t deserve them.

But he would try.

 _Take care of them_ , M. Gillenormand said.

He would try. Perhaps he would even succeed. No, he would.

After all, Valjean was right here by his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m really not sure how Javert managed to take over for the past two chapters, I really don’t. Maybe it’s because he has so many issues?
> 
> Also, my original outline was that this chapter would be about M. Gillenormand’s funeral because I’m not sure how to write him. Somehow, I ended up writing him anyway. Actually, I know why I ended up with this, because the old man was forgiven way too easily for his behaviour towards Marius in the Brick and I want him to acknowledge that, even if it’s a little belated.
> 
> I’m not quite sure how well I succeeded, though. Comments will be deeply appreciated, as always. 
> 
> Last thing: As I’m apparently incorrigible… I’ve started another epic. By the time you’re seeing this, I should have at least a few chapters written. It’s not for _Les Mis_ , unfortunately; it’s for _Hamilton_. It’s called _[a fever of the mad](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6540523)_. I’ve started posting it (because I have first drafts of this fic _all_ done; just needing edits, possibly rewriting and beta). Check it out if you’re in that fandom and if you’d like. (Warning, though: both this and _all sinners crawl_ run by Rousseau; _a fever of the mad_ runs by Hobbes.)


	13. Twelve, 2147

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dead and the legacies they leave behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Book II Chapter Thirteen: Twelve, 2147**
> 
> **Warnings:** Discussion of death and abuse; portrayals of grief and dealing with trauma. Look at the summary, basically.

“My grandfather used to tell me stories _his_ father used to tell him, about a time when court records were printed on paper, and lawyers would have several thick binder files on their desks whenever they had a case.”

Marius blinked. He looked away from the floating words that surrounded him – five different cases – to turn towards M. de Courfeyrac. The other man had his glasses on, and was squinting at a particular paragraph that he had pulled closer and enlarged. They had been working together in complete silence for the past two hours or so, the only communication between them the passing of certain paragraphs or entire pages from one machine to another.

“Wouldn’t that be a complete waste of resources?” Marius asked. He read over that particular paragraph again, frowning, before he dragged the entire page down with three fingers to check the date – 5 November, 2135.

“That was before the time when people realised that killing trees for paper isn’t entirely a wise idea,” M. de Courfeyrac said wryly. He shook his head, flattening his hand on the paragraph and pushing it back into its place in the document.

“And possibly before the time when everyone in the world had machines that could store information.”

“Hah,” Marius said. He dragged a hand through his hair, skimming through this particular file. “When was that?”

“The earliest part of the 21st century,” the other man replied. “Way before the outbreak of the civil wars.”

“Before the Great Blackout?” 

“Just before,” M. de Courfeyrac nodded. He turned towards Marius, adjusting his glasses. “Funny, isn’t it? A time when people didn’t have machines to do everything for them, but could reach each other across country lines through those very same machines.”

Despite the years that had passed since the success of the revolution, despite how much historical information they had distributed throughout the country, Marius still could not imagine the past. It just seemed to be a completely different world entirely: one where there was such a thing as the Internet which connected people via things that hovered above Earth called satellites; the very thing that allowed for their mobile phones to connect to each other.

“I’ve seen the pictures, I think,” Marius said. He frowned. “What of those that exist anyway. But they still don’t seem real to me.”

“You’re not the only one,” M. de Courfeyrac chuckled quietly. “M. Frey is right – we must learn of history. But what can we learn from what we cannot see?”

The Internet crashed and burned during what was now called the Great Blackout. There were fewer satellites out there in space now. Mathieu had been trying his best to try to figure out the reasons why that had happened, but he’d hit a brick wall. 

According to Duval, it didn’t help that the other diplomats weren’t forthcoming about those missing fifty or so years of history either. No one seemed to want to talk about what precisely caused the civil wars in France, the implosion of most of the countries in Europe, or the splintering of what used to be called the United States, much less why they had all happened at around the same time.

All they knew right now was that the Great Blackout was more likely to be a consequence than the cause of those events.

“Mathieu said…” Marius hesitated. “They stored information in those days in much the same way as we do now – digitally. That’s why so much was lost. Maybe paper was a good idea.”

“Mm,” M. de Courfeyrac said. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but his attention was suddenly caught by something he saw in the sea of text in front of him. He froze entirely, his fingers curled in the air in front of him.

“Monsieur?” Marius called. “What is it?” 

When the older man didn’t reply, he pushed away all of his own files with one hand, minimising them for later, and walked over. He followed M. de Courfeyrac’s gaze.

There, in front of him: _5-6 June, 2135_. A date engraved in his own memory. Marius felt his mouth go dry, and his joints locked.

They knew, of course, that they would end up finding this. M. Dumas had chosen the two of them specifically to look through the case files of the various courts in the past decades for the cases where the judgments passed were considered unjust for this specific reason. One of the greatest injustices of the past decade was the treatment of those who participated in the June Riots.

Had it really been over ten year since the barricades? If Marius closed his eyes, he could see it: chairs and tables piled high, the air thick with smoke and chokingly sharp with the stench of gunpowder. He could still see _them_ , his friends: Enjolras in his leather jacket, eyes bright and fierce, lit by the tricolours of a flag he had never seen raised; Combeferre with his ever-present cup of coffee, splashing dark liquid everywhere as he told them about his dreams of the future, of a world free and equal for everyone; and Courfeyrac… 

Courfeyrac at the doorway of the café, the setting sun giving his light skin a soft pink glow as he smiled and reached out a hand towards Marius, offering this stranger he had never met lodgings and companionship. Courfeyrac in the morning, half-dressed and his hair a mess, laughing as he fought with the half-dead coffee machine in his apartment. Courfeyrac, always warm even in the dead of winter, his arm around Marius’s shoulders and his breath in his ear, chattering about everything and nothing in particular, making Marius smile even when he thought he would never do so again.

Here, his friends written down in court records: _… killed in skirmish with National Guards… condemned posthumously as traitors_ …

Combeferre’s glasses, broken on the ground. A shadow of Enjolras, the red of his cap, the red of his blood.

He never saw Courfeyrac’s body. He never…

Marius squeezed his eyes shut. He stumbled away from the text, his feet unsteadily taking him backwards until he hit the couch with his heels. He collapsed into it, cupping his hands around his mouth as he tried to breathe. 

When he finally found the voice to speak, long minutes later, the words he said were the ones he once told another man whom he loved and was now dead:

“I had a best friend. He is dead.”

M. de Courfeyrac dropped down to sit beside him. “I had a brother,” the older man echoed. “He is dead.” His voice sounded to Marius as if it came from an ocean away. 

They sat there in silence. Finally: “Your best friend?”

“Yes,” Marius said. He laughed, soft and shaky, and did not turn. If he looked into the older man’s eyes, he would only see a ghost.

“He was the first to extend kindness towards me,” he continued when it’s evident from M. de Courfeyrac’s silence that he was waiting for an elaboration. “My grandfather threw me out and I was on the streets. He met me and he didn’t even know me, but he offered to share his apartment with me and helped me find a job.”

“That sounds like him,” M. de Courfeyrac said. There was an ache in his voice, twined with deep fondness as if the two could never be separated. “You know, our father tried to throw him out and cut off his allowance when he became a revolutionary. So our mother had a room set up in her own wing in the mansion for him. And all of us children pooled money together and gave him monthly exactly what our father would’ve given him.”

Marius watched, out of the corner of his eye, as M. de Courfeyrac laughed, and shook his head. “Even if we hadn’t done that, our father wouldn’t have lasted anyway. My brother had always been his favourite. He… he was the favourite of _everyone_.” 

He dragged a hand through his hair.

“Enjolras was our soul,” Marius said quietly. “Our leader and driving force. Combeferre was our brain, the one who came up with all of the ideas and plans. But he… he was our heart.”

Not for the first time, Marius wondered why it was _him_ who survived. He who had never really believed in the revolution, and only followed because he didn’t want to be left behind by his friends. He who didn’t shine as brightly as those three. Though he knew it was unfair of him, especially now he had a family…

If he could give his life for any of them to return, he still would. They would do so much more good than he had for this country. He would do that even if they didn’t do anything; he would give his life for them to return just so they could _see_ that the world they had dreamed about was _real_.

“Yeah, he seemed to do that wherever he went,” M. de Courfeyrac was saying. He chuckled, a painful little sound. 

Marius took a deep breath, and turned. He looked at M. de Courfeyrac sitting there, his shoulders hunched, all of his usual authority gone as he stared at his hands clasped between his knees.

“If,” he started. His voice cracked, and he swallowed hard before trying again. “If we’re going to talk about him, then perhaps we should use his name.”

The other man looked at him. “We should,” he agreed. “What did you know him as?”

“Courfeyrac,” Marius said, and didn’t stifle the shudder that went through him at the sound of that name, without the habitual ‘de’ he always used for the older brother in his head, echoing in the air. 

“Not his first name?” M. de Courfeyrac asked, confusion warring with grief on his face. “If you were best friends, then…”

Marius shrugged. “I’m the only one who went by my first name amongst us,” he said. “I think… I think it was because none of them wanted to forget the circumstances from which they came.”

Then he realised something, and laughed, the sound shaky and too hot in his throat. “Honestly, I’ve forgotten what his first name is. He has always been ‘Courfeyrac’ to me.”

“Is that why you have always addressed me as ‘Monsieur’ ever since I dropped the ‘de’ from my name?” 

“Well,” Marius said, shifting a little. “You didn’t want me to call you by your first name,” which he could understand, because it was _Gorlois_ , of all things, “so… Yeah.”

M. de Courfeyrac threw his head back and laughed. “My brother’s first name was Ferrant,” he said, smiling. “‘Ardent for peace’.”

Marius looked away. Like this, with his eyes bright, M. de Courfeyrac looked almost exactly like his brother. He wondered if the other man realised that; if he avoided mirrors because of it.

“It suits him, that name,” he said quietly. “He never went against the idea of a violent revolution, but he always talked more about the kind of lives we would have after we won.”

“I’ve never thought about that,” M. de Courfeyrac said, blinking. “Maybe it’s because I can’t help but keep thinking of the irony.”

Perhaps Marius’s face showed something, because he continued. “That he was named for peace but died in violence.”

Lowering his head, Marius clasped his hands together, tightening his grip until his knuckles turned white so they wouldn’t shake. “We were always fighting for peace,” he said. “Not just the kind of broken peace that we had in the past that was just for certain people in the country, but peace for everyone.”

Before M. de Courfeyrac could apologise, he waved a hand, shaking his head. “I’ve… come to terms with the fact that my friends were wrong in their methods,” he continued. He had to, after all, to be able to think up methods to create a revolution that kept violence away as much as possible. “But it didn’t mean that they deserved to…”

He swallowed, unable to keep going.

When M. de Courfeyrac didn’t say anything for a long moment, Marius lifted his head. The other man’s head was tilted towards the ceiling, staring into space. He wanted to speak, to apologise for the memories that he was surely dragging out into the open, but the words were stuck in his throat.

“I tried for a long time to believe that Ferrant died the death he deserved,” M. de Courfeyrac said finally, his voice so soft that it was barely more than a whisper. “It’d be easier for me to deal with that way, to think that my brother was a warmonger like the news channels called him. To think of him as being nothing more than that and dismiss his death as easily as everyone else did.”

He fell silent. Marius waited.

“But I can’t,” M. de Courfeyrac finally continued. “I knew him too well. I remember him too well.”

“Do you wish you can forget?” Marius asked.

M. de Courfeyrac turned to him. When he smiled, it was wry and small, with ghosts and sorrow haunting the edges.

“Why do you think I haven’t spoken to you about him all these years?” he asked. “I knew that you were at the barricades. I knew how to find you.” Everyone did, even before that protest that gained the revolution traction and turned it from a pipe dream to plausible reality. They still did now, no matter how much danger Marius knew he put himself into by remaining publicly visible.

“What I can’t figure out,” M. de Courfeyrac continued, “was why you didn’t approach me.”

Rubbing his beard, Marius tried for a smile. “I didn’t think you’d want to talk to me,” he said. “I… wasn’t part of his family. I didn’t think I had…” He shrugged slightly.

“The right to mourn him?”

Mairus nodded.

“I wanted to forget, but…,” M. de Courfeyrac sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I still should have spoken to you much sooner about this.”

“Not your fault,” Marius denied immediately. “I didn’t speak up either. Though that was because I wasn’t aware that you knew that I had been a part of the barricades..” And by the time he knew, years had already passed since Courfeyrac’s death. Surely no one liked having terrible memories and grief being brought up again.

“Did you not think that I would have liked to have someone else to share the memories of my brother with?” M. de Courfeyrac asked, raising an eyebrow. 

“You have…” Marius flapped his hand helplessly. “Your family.” The siblings and parents that he shared with Courfeyrac.

M. Courfeyrac stared at his hands. “We do not see each other much anymore, M. Pontmercy,” he said, lapsing back to stiff formality. “We only see each other on the sixth of June every year. At his grave.”

He laughed, a hoarse and bitter little sound. “Most times we meet, we fight.” His lips crooked up into a small, bitter smile. “Ferrant had always been the mediator between all of us. After he died, no one filled the void.”

Marius’s mouth went dry. “I…” he swallowed.

“Don’t apologise,” M. de Courfeyrac said, placing a hand on his shoulder, squeezing. Marius bit back the gasp at the touch, so sudden and unexpected after long years of deliberate distance.

“You could not have known, and you were caught up in your own grief. I could not bother you with mine.”

“It is not a bother,” Marius blurted out before he could help himself. He was in his thirties by now, and a father, but M. de Courfeyrac had the same ability as M. Dumas to make him feel as if he was little more than a young man barely out of his teens.

He rubbed his beard with a shaking hand, and tried to smile.

“We can… try now?” he offered. “I knew only Courfeyrac only as a friend and you knew him as a brother. Maybe we can try to… share the memories?”

M. de Courfeyrac stared at him. Marius cursed himself – of course he didn’t want such a thing. Even if he did, Marius was surely far too late.

But before he could apologise, or take his words back, M. de Courfeyrac laughed. When he smiled, there were fewer shadows lingering at the edges.

“There have been so many statements made of your courage through the years, Marius,” he said quietly, “and by so many. But this is a sort of courage that I have never heard.”

Marius ducked his head, trying to hide the instinctive flush that rose in his cheeks. He rubbed the back of his neck.

“You’re paying me too much of a compliment,” he said. “It took me twelve years to broach the subject.”

“So it did,” M. de Courfeyrac nodded. “But so took me, and it was you who extended that hand first.”

Well, Marius couldn’t really say anything against that. He bit his lip, looking around him.

“What of our work?”

“It can wait,” the other man said promptly. Then he chuckled. “Honestly, I won’t be surprised if Dumas, the old fox, was actually planning for this to happen.”

The blatant disrespect that M. de Courfeyrac showed had Marius gaping. Of course, the older man had worked with Monsieur le Président for far longer and thus knew him better, and his entire career wasn’t owed to the man’s decisions. Still, it was a shock.

“You need to stop seeing Dumas as someone far above you in station, you know,” M. de Courfeyrac said. “Or myself, for the matter. You have done so much more than any one of us, after all. The very work we’re doing now is owed to you. Even my name now is chosen because of you.” 

“I…” Marius shook his head. He scrubbed his knuckles over his cheek in a desperate and completely useless attempt to deaden his flush.

“Can we talk about Courfeyrac instead, Monsieur?” he asked plaintively.

M. de Courfeyrac laughed. “Of course,” he said.

They spoke until the sun set and it was long past time for them to return home. The next morning, they didn’t even bother heading towards the Cour, instead settling down at a café near it.

One could say that they were practicing a sort of exorcism. But it couldn’t be that when Courfeyrac was always there – perched on the arm of the office couch, taking the third chair at the café table his friend and brother chose. Laughing at them, and at himself, as they exchanged stories.

Perhaps it was, instead, a resurrection. Courfeyrac was still dead. He couldn’t see the world they had made. But between Marius and his brother, they almost could see his reaction; could put together how he would live in this new world.

That was almost enough. It was more than Marius had ever expected.

***

Perhaps it was because she had never had the chance to read descriptions of hospitals, but Azelma found the scent of antiseptic to be something comforting. Mathieu told her that the smell was one that had been associated with death for centuries, but to Azelma, it was too clean for that. On the streets, death always smelled sweet and thick, like fruit left out to rot in the hot sun, or the alcohol that was poured over festering wounds and open sores. Death smelled like blood.

Antiseptic was clean; soothing. It signified healing. Still, she knew her opinion was unique, and so she made sure that the ventilation in the hospital was strong enough that the smell of it wasn’t too strong.

Especially here, in this particular ward. If there was anything Azelma had learned since the hospital’s inception, it was that children had a stronger sense of smell than any adult.

Azelma leaned against the door, her hand stroking absentmindedly over her toddler daughter’s head as she watched her four-year-old son make his rounds amongst the other children.

Nicolas had her dark hair and eyes, but his calm and pride were entirely his father’s. She watched as he spoke to the other children, resting his hands on the rails beside their beds, pretending to take their pulse from their thin, thin wrists where the bones were poking through the skin. Some of the children still ignored him, their eyes wide and afraid as they watched this strange boy who looked far more well-fed and cared-for than themselves, but they shied away from his touch far less than they from the adults’. 

“I know people who will say that he’s too young to be in a hospital.”

Turning, Azelma smiled automatically when she saw Clarisse standing there, her hands shoved into the pockets of her ragged jeans. The t-shirt she wore hung loosely on her shoulders, the print on it long faded into obscurity and the collar frayed.

Despite getting a job, despite having her own house, Clarisse still had practically the same wardrobe, and kept her habit of wearing the same clothes over and over until they were close to falling apart. Azelma never asked her why; she had the same reasons for never touching Mathieu’s money unless it was for their children.

“Will those same people say that these children are too young to be here too?” she asked.

Clarisse shrugged. She reached over and tickled little Élise on her cheek, the touch gentle enough to not wake her up. “They’d say that there’s a difference between children being in a hospital because they have to be, and being brought here when there are no injuries or illnesses,” she said. Her eyes lifted, and she gave Azelma a crooked grin.

“Frankly, I think that’s a load of bullshit.”

Azelma laughed. “He was born here,” she said, turning her attention back to her son. He was speaking to one of the children now, making the little girl – who was seven years old but looked little more than five – throw her head back and laugh, showing the gaps in her teeth and her purple, rotting gums. “He grew up here, and he asked to come to speak to them.”

“Those same people will say that you’re a crap mother for indulging your children in what is clearly bad for them,” Clarisse said dryly. When Azelma looked at her, she found that the other woman’s gaze was fixed on that little girl’s arms – one in a cast, and the other hooked up with wires and tubes that fed her until her gums healed enough so she could take in food without crying out in pain.

“You should stop thinking about those people,” Azelma said. “It’s been years since you’ve had to care about what they think.”

“Can’t help it,” Clarisse said. She crossed her arms, hands clenching tight on her elbows. “Especially not when I’m here.” 

Before Azelma could speak, Clarisse shot her a wry, small smile. “I know that means that I should stop coming here, but I just can’t help myself. The irresistible draw of looking at what could’ve been, you know?”

Azelma fell silent. Despite how long she had known Clarisse – longer than she had known Monsieur Javert – she still knew very little of the woman’s life before she’d ended up in the shelter. 

“It’s a funny thing, really,” Clarisse said more than ten minutes later, after Nicolas had moved to another bed and started playing finger puppets with a little boy who hadn’t spoken once in the five months he had been in the hospital. “Any of these kids could’ve been mine.”

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” Azelma said quietly.

Clarisse blinked at her. “I thought you knew,” she said, visibly surprised. “Didn’t Marius or Cosette tell you?”

“No,” Azelma shook her head. Neither of them had ever mentioned it, and though she had been curious, she didn’t even look at the court records of Clarisse’s case. All she had done was to ask M. Valjean about what he knew of Clarisse’s life when she was thinking about asking the woman to help her in the hospital, and all M. Valjean had done was to shake his head. 

It didn’t seem fair to have someone’s story from other mouths. So Azelma just waited.

“Hah,” Clarisse said. After a moment, she shrugged. When she spoke, her voice was pitched low enough to not reach the children, and her tone was utterly casual.

“We could’ve had kids together, the bastard I was married to and me. He used to rape me pretty often. But then again, he used to beat me with the same frequency.” 

Azelma’s hand stilled from where she was stroking through Élise’s hair. She swallowed.

“Don’t worry about it,” Clarisse said, clearly seeing the distress on her face. “I’m pretty glad that I never managed to have those kids. If I had, then I couldn’t have ended up here. Hell, I wouldn’t even have run away from him. But it’s just…”

She shrugged again.

Ducking her head, Azelma pressed a kiss on Élise’s hair, looking at her tiny daughter’s squeezed-shut eyes. She couldn’t imagine being glad to have lost her. She couldn’t imagine being glad to have lost Nicolas.

No, she could. Not with Mathieu, but… There was a time, weeks after the alleyway – after Monsieur went into jail and before she even spoke to him – that she lived in terror every single day. A nameless, inexplicable horror that was only relieved when she found blood on her underwear one morning.

“How many did you lose?” she asked quietly.

“Three,” Clarisse told her, hands clenched white-knuckled on her elbows. She looked at Azelma for a moment, and there was something old and resigned in her eyes that belied her casual tone. “I was married to him for ten years.”

When she smiled, the scar across her cheek deepened, resembling a worm that writhed underneath her skin. Azelma reached out, her fingers brushing the air above it.

“I got this one day when he forgot to take off his signet ring before he backhanded me,” Clarisse said, turning away to avoid the touch. “Funny thing: the scar that incident left is fucking obvious, but I always forget about it whenever I remember that he exists.”

The wounds buried within were always far deeper and festered far more than any wounds that appeared on the skin. The bruises on Azelma’s hips from where Jeannot Tholomyés had gripped her were long gone, but the alleyway still haunted her. Sometimes it seemed that she and Mathieu simply alternated nights when they woke up screaming.

Not for the first time, she realised the sheer irony of the country’s situation. A new beginning crafted by the hands of those who constantly had the past dogging their heels. She closed her eyes.

“Sorry,” she said, voice soft. “I don’t know what to say.” 

“No one does,” Clarisse said, and the wry humour was so thick in her voice that Azelma’s heart ached for her. “At least you’re not crying like Cosette and Marius did.”

Of course they would cry. Perhaps Azelma was being unkind, but she knew that Cosette and Marius, despite their griefs and ghosts, had always been the luckiest out of all of them. They knew love; they knew what it was like to be valued even before they met each other. Their foundations were shaken several times, but they _had_ foundations. And that only made their tears even more striking.

“I don’t think what you said is something to cry about,” Azelma said. This time, she didn’t pull away when Clarisse flinched at the touch of Azelma’s hand on hers. “It’s something to be admired, that you managed to carry on despite all that had happened.”

“What is it that you said once?” Clarisse asked. She didn’t pull away, instead tangling her fingers with Azelma’s on her arm. “You take one day at a time.”

“Is it easier now?”

“Yeah,” Clarisse said. There was something broken about her smile that had nothing to do with how the scar on her cheek pulled one side of her mouth higher than the other. Maybe Azelma was being ridiculous, but the sight of those edges made her heart feel lighter.

“It’s funny, isn’t it?” she said. “How much helping people ends up helping yourself?”

Clarisse stared at her for a moment before she threw her head back and laughed. The sound was sincere, the dark edges of it only making it more beautiful. Azelma smiled.

“Man, your way with words…” Clarisse shook her head. She was still grinning when she looked at Azelma again.

The two of them just stood there, half-grinning towards each other before Azelma realised that Élise was starting to fuss. Clarisse’s laughter had woken her up, and her limbs were flailing around. Azelma drew her head back to avoid being hit in the teeth by a tiny, clenched fist.

“Oh shit,” Clarisse said. Then she laughed again, dragging a hand through her hair before she held both out. “Give her here. I woke her up, so I’ll get her back to sleep.”

Azelma looked at her. Three dead children, Clarisse mentioned, and Azelma wondered how old each of them would have been if they had lived. Surely older than Azelma’s own, older than even Cosette’s Jeanne, but… But perhaps they had never really grown up in Clarisse’s mind.

Hooking her fingers beneath the straps of the sling she was using to carry Élise, Azelma lifted the baby and held her outwards. Élise whined, a tiny, betrayed, “Mama!” escaping her as Clarisse took her. Azelma kissed her nose, making her scrunch up her face, and Clarisse rested the straps on her own shoulders before poking that wrinkled brow.

“Who’s being a fussy little creature?” Clarisse cooed. “Who should go back to sleep?”

“’Risse!” Élise yelped happily. “Reeeeeeeeeese!”

Laughing quietly, Azelma left her daughter in Clarisse’s capable hands, moving towards her son. She could see, even from here, that Nicolas was getting tired. Even at four, he was too proud to show it, but there was a stiltedness to his reactions that he couldn’t hide.

“Mama,” he greeted her with a nod when she came over. He was now sitting on the bed of yet another little girl, this one nearly ten years old by her files and yet still small enough to pass for six.

“Adelais was just telling me about a toy she had once,” Nicolas continued while the girl ducked her head down and looked at Azelma shyly through her raggedly-cut but clean hair. “It was a rabbit.”

“Oh?” Azelma asked.

The girl nodded. “My Papa gave him to me before he died,” she said shyly. Then she poked Nicolas on the arm. “And I told you that it’s ‘Ade’ instead of ‘Adelais’.”

“But ‘Adelais’ is a far prettier name,” Nicolas said, perfectly innocently. Azelma bit back the urge to laugh, because she was no good with flirting and neither was Mathieu, and yet her son was already a tiny charmer. She would wonder where he learned it from if she didn’t know just how much time he spent with Philippe.

Still, she reached over and bopped Nicolas on the nose. “If ‘Ade’ is what she prefers, then call her by that name,” she chided her son gently. “It is her name, after all.”

Nicolas opened his mouth, surely to argue, but Ade was nodding rapidly, so he sighed and nodded. “Yes, Mama,” he said. To his credit, he didn’t sound entirely too reluctant about that.

“What happened to your rabbit, Ade?” she asked, turning her attention to the girl.

“He was kidnapped one day by a group of boys,” Ade told her, every word halting and hesitant. “Then he was run over by a car.”

Biting her lip, the little girl wrapped her arms around herself. “I miss him.”

The whispered confession broke Azelma’s heart. These children had so little, and they held onto all that they could and yet it was all constantly ripped away from them.

Before she could do anything, Nicolas was already scrambling up from his sitting position. He flung his arms around the older girl’s shoulders, hugging her tightly. His eyes lifted up to his mother, and Azelma smiled at the pleading look in them. Her son had never asked for anything for himself, and yet he always did so for others.

Leaning in, she rested a gentle hand on top of Ade’s head. “Will you ask the nurse for a piece of paper and some crayons when she comes in next?” she asked, making sure her tone was gentle. “If you draw out what your rabbit looks like, I can see if I can find another one like him for you.”

Ade’s head shot up, showing the ropey, twisted scars that scored her thin neck. “You _would_?” she asked, eyes widening.

“Of course,” Azelma said quietly. “Do you remember what the nurses and doctors told you? Whatever you want or need, we’ll try to give it to you.”

“But,” Ade said. She shook her head, burying her head into Nicolas’s shoulder as much as she could. “But I’m too old for toys now, right?”

“No one is ever too old for toys,” Azelma said, making sure that her tone wasn’t fierce or insistent. 

“I…” Ade sniffed. She wiped at her eyes a little before she pulled away from Nicolas, looking from the boy to his mother. “Thank you. I’ll… I’ll do my best to draw.”

When she hesitated, Azelma ruffled her hair – a quiet, unspoken prompt.

“Can I keep the crayons after I’m done?” Ade asked after a long moment. “I’ll… I’ll share with the other kids here, I promise! I won’t be selfish and keep them for myself.”

Azelma swallowed. She would dearly love to meet the person who told this little girl that wanting something that was entirely her own was selfishness. Though that might not be a good idea – she was not a violent person, but she thought she might end up killing them.

Instead, she smiled. “Of course you can, and you don’t have to share,” she said quietly. “Everyone will get some crayons, alright?”

It would be a bit of a strain on their budget, given that it was already verging on the red. But Azelma would find a way – if the hospital couldn’t afford it, then she could. If she couldn’t, well… Monsieur always told her that he used practically none of his own salary; she could ask him for this, perhaps.

Ade was looking at her as if she couldn’t believe she was actually a real person. Azelma widened her smile, ruffling her hair again.

“You don’t have to be afraid of asking for things, alright?” she said, leaning in and lowering her voice as if imparting for a secret. “We ask for things freely.”

Glancing at Nicolas for a moment, she caught sight of him trying to stifle a yawn, and shook her head. “Like now, I need to ask you for permission to bring Nicolas away for his nap.”

“I don’t need a nap,” her son denied immediately, but he utterly ruined his point by yawning again.

“Go nap,” Ade huffed at him, nudging at him with a shoulder. “You’re little. You need to sleep.”

“Not little,” Nicolas said even as he rubbed at his eyes. 

“Very little,” Azelma refuted. She reached out both hands, simply waiting for him to finish giving her his usual pout to lift him into her arms. He was getting a little too big for her to carry with ease, but he still fitted just fine against her side with his legs wrapped around her waist. She kissed him on the forehead.

“Besides, I need him to take care of his little sister while I finish up some work,” she told Ade. “He’ll come back tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay,” Ade said. She smiled, gap-toothed and sincere, as she waved. “See you tomorrow.”

As Nicolas waved back, and also called out to the other children in the ward that he was leaving – “for now!” he insisted – Azelma made her way back to Clarisse. The other woman had gotten Élise to sleep by now, the baby sucking on her own thumb as she curled up in the sling. Clarisse was absentmindedly stroking through her soft, dark hair.

They made their way to Azelma’s office and its adjacent nursery together. Nicolas was half-asleep by the time they reached it, but he still waited, arms open, until Azelma plucked Élise from her sling and into his embrace. He curled up on the small bed with his sister, sighing heavily as he pulled her thumb out of her mouth.

“She’s gross,” he told his mother, completely unaware of the irony of his words as he wiped Élise’s thumb and mouth with his shirt.

Azelma laughed quietly, leaning down to kiss both of her children on the cheek. “She’s a baby still,” she said. “You’ll have to be patient.”

He looked doubtfully at his sister before he shrugged, yawning a little as he slung his arm around her. “Guess so,” he muttered. “Can’t wait until she can speak like a person so she can talk to the other kids with me.”

Stroking her hand through his dark curls, Azelma shook her head. “We’ll see if she wants to do that herself,” she told him. Before he could protest, she stood up. “Goodnight, Nicolas.”

Nicolas eyed her for a moment, no doubt considering if he wanted to argue that point. Then he shrugged and closed his eyes. “’Night, Mama.”

Even though Azelma knew she had a pile of work to do, she spent the next few minutes simply watching her son fall asleep. It still took her breath away with wonder, sometimes, that she had ended up here. She always thought that she would follow her father anywhere, even into the dumpster as a corpse.

But her father was dead, and she was now considered to be one of the most powerful people in country despite how she’d started out. She wasn’t as high-profile as Cosette, of course, but… She had something that was hers, and it was an entire hospital, an entire medical system. She was married to a man that most still considered practically royalty.

When she left the nursery for her office, she was laughing quietly at her own circumstances. But it died when she saw Clarisse perched on her desk, a serious look on her face.

“You have someone waiting for you,” the other woman said.

“What?” Azelma blinked.

“She didn’t give her name, but she has been checked and she isn’t armed,” Clarisse shrugged. “I’d say that she’s one of those,” meaning the women who came to either Azelma or Clarisse to escape from her husband, “but Dionne looked practically star-struck when she told me, so I don’t know.”

Dionne was the head nurse in the hospital, a woman in her fifties who was tougher than steel. Azelma blinked again.

“We can invite her in,” she said.

Clarisse nodded, and went to the door as Azelma dropped into the chair behind her desk. She was looking idly through some of the blueprints for the hospitals planned for the north of the country when the door opened again.

At the first sight of her visitor, Azelma knew precisely why Dionne had reacted that way. The woman was absolutely stunning, with bright blue eyes and dark, wavy hair pinned into an artful bun at the back of her head. She wore a sleeveless black dress that was more suited for a ballroom than a hospital, her shoulders covered by the waist-long coat that likely cost as much as some of the nurses’ salaries. Despite the mid-autumn weather outside, her long-fingered, elegant hands were covered in suede gloves. 

Immediately, Azelma stood, walking around her desk. All of the secrecy from before no longer mattered: she knew _exactly_ who she was.

“Mme. Enjolras,” she greeted.

“Please,” the older woman said, taking her hand into a firm shake. “Call me Lucille.”

Azelma nodded. Looking closer, she noted, a little dully, the dark circles and heavy lines around Mme. Enjolras’s – around _Lucille’s_ – eyes, barely hidden beneath her perfect make-up. She wondered if that had anything to do with the woman’s visit as she invited her to take a seat on the couch.

“I’ll go,” Clarisse said abruptly. She looked uncomfortable, shifting from foot to foot.

Lucille turned. “Please stay,” she said. “What I have to mention will consider you as well, Madame…”

Clarisse laughed. “Just call me Clarisse, please,” she said, a trace of amusement threading into her voice. “Langlois is the name of the assholes who sold me, and Honore is the name of the bastard who bought me. Just Clarisse will do. No need for ‘Madame’ anything.”

Azelma watched, amused, as Lucille simply _stared_ , her painted-pink lips parted. 

“That’s…” she started. After a moment, she shook her head, a small, almost hysterical laugh escaping out of her. “I have never heard it put so bluntly.”

Blinking, Azelma exchanged a look at Clarisse, who narrowed her eyes, then shrugged. As one, they took a seat on the couch opposite Lucille, and Azelma brushed her hair away from her face. Somehow, she suspected that, despite how Lucille looked, the reasons why she wanted to see them were not much different from the other women who came here in much more ragged clothes.

“What can I do for you?” she asked softly.

Lucille didn’t reply for long moments, her gaze fixed upon her gloved hands. Slowly, deliberately, she started to tug at her fingers, then at the wrist, half-taking off her gloves before pulling them back on again.

“I’m here to offer my services,” she said finally, her voice so quiet that Azelma had to strain to hear her.

Of all the things Azelma expected, it wasn’t this. She blinked, leaning forward despite herself.

“Will you care to elaborate on that, Madame?” she asked gently.

“Please, call me Lucille,” the woman said. “I’ve noticed that your hospital offers practically everything that medicine has to give,” She didn’t look up, simply taking a deep breath and continuing. 

“But you do not… You do not have psychiatry or psychology.”

Azelma stilled. Of course she had noticed the lack – the hospital had elder-care and paediatrics and gynaecology; they had oncology and neurology and cardiology and hepatology. Practically every part of the body that had been studied in the past few thousand years of medicine was in the huge, sprawling building; she had gathered as many medical experts as she could such that practically everything that could be broken could be healed.

But not the wounds of the mind.

“I’ve never found the experts for such a thing,” Azelma said quietly. She had tried, of course she had, but psychiatry and psychology had been left behind as a field of study during the civil wars. There was no time for anyone to try to heal the mind when everything else was falling apart.

Besides, the mind wasn’t something that could be healed, could it? It wasn’t as if unwanted memories and thoughts had physical forms like cancer that could be attacked with drugs.

Lucille nodded. “I heard,” she said. Finally, she lifted her head, and her smile was small and cautious. “I think I might be able to help with that.”

“What do you mean?” Clarisse cut in before Azelma could even speak.

“Before… before my marriage,” Lucille said, looking back at her hands. “I studied psychiatry in the Valkenberg Hospital of South Africa.”

Azelma went still again. She had heard – how could she not, with Mathieu as her husband and Philippe her brother-in-law – about the continent of Africa, and how it had risen in prominence and power in the more than a century since Western Europe had fallen to pieces and what used to be the United States of America had splintered into the eleven nations that currently existed. 

Mathieu had told her that, in the past, Africans longed for the chance to come to Europe to study at their universities like how Europeans wanted to go to Africa now. Azelma could barely believe it even with the reports and books he had shown her. Why would anyone come to their broken country?

Azelma realised that she had been silently staring for long moments. “Oh,” she said, inadequately.

“I have no official qualifications, of course,” Lucille continued, her words practically tripping over each other. “I was only a nurse, and not even one that was specialising in the subject.

“But I still remember my days there and the very basics of the subject. The people I once knew when I was there might still be working in the field, and I can…” She hesitated again. “I can ask them for advice.”

“Why do you want to do this?” Clarisse asked, managing to voice out the thoughts that were running in Azelma’s head.

“Don’t get us wrong,” Azelma said quickly, leaning forward and trying to smile. “We’ll be glad to have your help. We’re only… curious about what caused this.”

Lucille didn’t reply. She simply sat there, completely frozen, as the seconds ticked away. Azelma waited, and placed her hand on Clarisse’s arm to urge her into patience as well.

“Thirteen years ago, my son died,” Lucille said finally, her voice dropping back into a whisper. “I was not there to see him die. I was not there to hold him in my arms during his last moments. I did not… I did not even see body until he was returned to us. I had to beg my husband to request for him to be returned to us.”

Her hands stilled in their repetitive motions of pulling on her gloves a little before tugging them back on. She yanked off the suede, balling it all together in her pale hands, fingers linking together until her knuckles turned white. 

“Throughout these years, I’ve had dreams about what it would be like if I saw him die. They occurred with rapid frequency, and tapered off until they came around once a week or so. But they always came.”

This was starting to sound familiar. Azelma clenched her teeth together so she would not interrupt. Her hand dug into Clarisse’s arm for a moment before releasing it. But the other woman didn’t even seem to have noticed.

“It was only recently, when I was looking through my old things, that I remembered that there is a name for what I felt,” Lucille continued. She straightened her shoulders, lifting her head up and meeting Azelma’s, then Clarisse’s, eyes. She looked like the woman Azelma saw on the television a few years ago, the one who Philippe told her had managed to keep the reporters away with just a few measured words.

“Once, a very long time ago, it was called shellshock. The name changed to Post-Traumatic Disorder decades later. I’m certain that the name has changed once more now.” Her nails bit tighter into the back of her hands. “The dreams that came… the images I saw of my son’s bloodied body though he was cleaned before he was returned to me… there is a name for them. A name and… and a treatment.”

Azelma stopped breathing. Beside her, Clarisse made a strangled noise in her throat.

“Not only that, but…” Lucille squeezed her eyes shut before opening them again. The blue shone, starkly bright. “I have wished to leave my husband since my son died. But I never did. I thought it was simply my complacency, or my cowardice. But… but perhaps there is another name for it. I’m not sure if it is Stockholm syndrome or Cycle of Abuse. It might not be either, but I know that there _is_ a name.”

Her hand dragged through her hair, dislodging strands from the bun and making them fall over her face. She brushed them away impatiently.

“There are books out there about these things,” she continued. “Treatments. I don’t remember any of them now, but I know… I know that they _exist_.”

In Philippe’s Cabinet, serving as Minister of Defence, there was a man named Duval; Azelma once grabbed a gun out of his hand when he’d tried to shoot Marius. He was the first person Azelma knew who had the same recurring dreams, the same irrational fears, as herself, as Monsieur, as Mathieu and Philippe and Marius and all of her closest friends. He was the first person who showed Azelma that she was not simply lucky – in a warped sort of way – to find people who understood, but that these things… these unnameable things, were an epidemic throughout the entire country.

The children’s ward she’d just left always filled with screams during the night. The women who came to her and Clarisse always told them about how much they always wanted to leave, but could not find the courage until they saw that there were other women who did and who managed to continue living – not just surviving – on their own. All Azelma could do for them, for any of them, was to provide comfort and kindness and some sort of safe space.

But even if there were no demons under the bed, there were plenty in their own heads. Vague, formless creatures, impossible to pin down, impossible to exorcise.

The demons had a _name_. There were _methods_ to get rid of them.

When she moved, she didn’t realise it. She felt, numbly, the pain in her knee as she bumped against the coffee table that separated her from Lucille in her rush to get to the older woman. The ache increased as she collapsed in front of her, grabbing those pale, cold hands in hers.

“ _Thank you_ ,” she said, hoarsely. “If… If you can do this… Even just the books… The difference you can make is… I have… I have no words for it.”

Lucille stared at her, blue eyes wide and uncomprehending. She opened her mouth, then closed it. Her fingers tangled into Azelma’s.

“My son died for a better world,” she said, voice distant as her eyes stared past Azelma into a world that no one could touch. “I… I only wish to help bring that world into reality, no matter how late I am in doing so.”

“You’re not too late,” Azelma said fiercely, gripping Lucille’s hands even tighter in hers. “There is still time. There is still _time_.”

She made to say more, but she was interrupted by a sound. It was laughter, high-pitched and definitely hysterical. Azelma froze just as Lucille did, and they turned at the same time to look at Clarisse.

Clarisse’s head had dropped onto her knees, and her arms were wrapped tightly around her chest as she laughed. She rocked back and forth on the couch.

Exchanging a glance with Lucille, they moved as one, two women strangers to each other joining forces in an instant in the view of another woman’s pain. They bracketed Clarisse between them, pulling her into their arms, each taking one of her hands before she could start clawing at her thighs and anything she could reach.

“Do you,” Clarisse said, voice wild and words broken up with hiccups, “do you have a name for someone who is happy that her children died, and still can’t help seeing them in the face of every single kid?”

Lucille froze. Azelma could practically see the gears in her mind frantically turning as her hand tangled with Clarisse’s. 

“There isn’t an exact term I can remember,” she said quietly. “But… but for the former… Coping mechanism, I think. Survival instinct.”

“It sounds so _clinical_ ,” Clarisse said through her broken laughter. “Like… like it’s some kind of illness.”

“I… I think it is,” Lucille said. “I remember the doctors in Valkenburg talking – they call these things ‘mental illnesses’. And they spoke of coping mechanism like… It’s like a fever whenever you get the flu, I think one of them said. The body uses methods to get rid of what’s making it feel wrong, and sometimes that makes you feel worse. The mind… the mind does the same thing.”

She hesitated. “I’m sorry, I know that doesn’t help. I know that calling you sick doesn’t—”

“No, no, no,” Clarisse shook her head rapidly. “I’m sick. I’m _sick_.” There was a terrified sort of jubilation in her voice that Azelma could not name but could feel the shape of in her own heart.

Lifting her head, Clarisse looked from Azelma to Lucille. “Don’t you see?” she begged the older woman. “If I’m sick, if we’re all sick, then we can _get better_.”

“We can get better,” Azelma echoed. She had nothing of her own to say. Her mind was blank- no, not blank. It was too full, circling around Lucille’s words, the names she gave them. Shellshock. Post-traumatic stress disorder. Stockholm syndrome. Cycle of abuse. Coping mechanism. Survival instinct.

They were sick. They were all sick. They could heal. There were ways that they could use to help them heal. They didn’t have to hope and – for some of them – pray that time would heal them. They could _do something_ by themselves.

“I didn’t…” Lucille looked at the two of them, her eyes wide and all of her previously-regained poise gone. She tugged shaky fingers through her hair. “I thought… Surely this is…”

She stopped, unable to continue. Azelma reached for her, squeezing her arm over Clarisse’s shoulder.

“This isn’t a battle that you’re fighting alone,” Azelma said, keeping her voice steady out of sheer force of will even as her eyes brimmed with tears. “If… if you like, you can come with me to look at the rest of the hospital. We’re _all_ fighting the same battle, and you have no idea what you have just done.”

“Weapons,” Clarisse blurted. “If this is a battle, then you gave us weapons.”

“Oh,” Lucille said. She sank back into the couch. Her head bowed, and she pulled both hands through her hair, messing up the bun entirely.

“You gave us _hope_ that we can win,” Azelma continued. “That we… we don’t have to keep fighting for the rest of our lives.”

Taking a deep breath, Lucille lifted her head. Like this, with her tears washing off the foundation that hid the lines beside her eyes and her dark circles, with her hair a complete mess, she looked so much more beautiful than she had when she first walked into Azelma’s office.

She was no longer a marble statue, but a living, breathing woman, with scars and wounds that marked her to be as human and as unique as everyone else.

“I… Please don’t look at me like that,” she begged them. “I didn’t come as a saviour. I…”

Azelma understood immediately. She squeezed the older woman’s hand. “Please, tell me what I can do.”

“It’s not your help I need,” Lucille laughed shakily. “I had a speech planned. I was going to tell you about what I know, what knowledge I have, so that… so that you’ll help me convince M. Pontmercy to help me get a divorce from my husband.”

Opening her mouth, Azelma made to speak. But Lucille shook her head.

“I don’t have any money of my own. All this,” she motioned towards herself, to her expensive dress and coat and shoes, “belongs to my husband. All of the money I have is my husband’s. But I can’t… I can’t stay married to him anymore. I couldn’t when my son was alive, then he died and what my husband said… I should have left him then, but I was… I was so….”

“It’s okay,” Clarisse said, wrapping her arms around Lucille’s thin shoulders as they began to shake. “You were afraid. You got used to it, and thought you could always be used to it. It’s okay.”

Lucille turned her head, looking at Clarisse as she laughed again. “Why do you need names when you can put things into words so well?” 

“Because the names don’t just make them real,” Clarisse said. She swallowed hard, closing her eyes and leaning forward until her forehead touched Lucille’s. Lucille tensed, but didn’t pull away.

“They make them acknowledged. I can… I can use a thousand words to describe what I feel, but they’re only what _I_ feel. What we feel. Names mean that the world acknowledges that what we feel isn’t the way we should. That it’s actually a problem with the world instead of ourselves.”

“Oh,” Lucille said. Slowly, she wrapped her arms around Clarisse. Azelma squeezed her hand, her shoulder, until she relaxed into the embrace.

“You don’t need money,” Azelma said quietly. “Even if you didn’t have this, I would still have begged Marius to help you. You could’ve just gone to ask him and he would’ve helped you. We might not have the names that you gave us, but we… He knows what is _wrong_ , and he’ll always fight to stop it.”

“Is it really wrong when I’ve gotten so much out of it?” Lucille asked, the question seeming to slip out of her without her wanting it to. “When I’ve had… I’ve had all of the riches, all of the comforts?”

Azelma had no answer, but it was not her place to do so anyway: Clarisse was laughing, soft and low.

“No number of beautiful dresses or jewellery is enough to make up for the times when you feel like a slave,” she told Lucille gently. “No matter how gorgeous your house, no matter how much you have to eat, it is not enough to make up for the times when you feel worthless.” 

Lucille pulled back, eyes flying open, lips parted. Clarisse smiled crookedly.

“The bastard I was married to wasn’t as rich as yours,” she said, “but my parents sold me to him because he _was_ filthy rich.”

When Lucille looked to be at a loss of words, Clarisse cupped her cheek gently. “Let me tell you something, okay? When you’re free of him and entirely penniless, the food you eat will taste better than anything your chefs right now can make because you’ll be eating it as someone who is _free_.”

“And we’ll make sure that you’re free,” Azelma said quietly, reaching out and brushing Lucille’s hair away from her face as she started to sob. “That’s what Marius does. He breaks the chains that the laws put on us.”

“He won’t dare to do anything else,” Clarisse chimed in. Her smile widened into a grin that distorted the scar on her face even further. “Because you’re going to break us free of the chains that the demons in our heads put us into. And that’s worth more than any amount of money in the world.”

“Thank you,” Lucille choked out. “ _Thank you_.”

She seemed incapable of any other words. But that was fine; Azelma needed nothing else, and neither did Clarisse. Lucille had given them names, and that was a debt that they could not repay.

There was plenty of work to be done now. Azelma had to speak to Marius about Lucille’s case; she had to speak to Philippe about getting into contact with South Africa; she had to speak to Mathieu about sending some of their current medical students over to Valkenburg, or any other psychiatric hospital that would take them. She had to draft up some plans about how any of those things could be done.

But the plans could wait. Right now, there was Clarisse, and there was Lucille, and they were crying and laughing both, so overwhelmed that they would be exhausted later on. They needed her, the only one in the room who had a good marriage even though she had scars of her own, and she would be there for them.

She held them and spoke to them. Later, when Nicolas woke up from his nap – no doubt because of noise – with Élise trailing behind him, holding onto his hand, she simply drew her children into the embrace with the women. 

Nicolas didn’t ask; he simply hugged her back, and extended his embrace to the other two women when they burst into even more tears at the sight of him. Élise took her introduction to Lucille calmly, and allowed herself to be held, not even wriggling when Clarisse practically crushed her into her chest. Their mother could not be prouder.

Azelma was aware of just how lucky she was. It wasn’t anything she deserved, and so she would spread it as far as she could.

It was the least she could do. There was still so much left broken, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marius’s line, “I had an intimate friend. He is dead,” is taken near-verbatim from the Brick – Volume V, Book 5, Chapter 4: Mademoiselle Gillenormand Ends by No Longer Thinking It a Bad Thing that M. Fauchelevent Should Have Entered With Something Under His Arm. (Hugo’s chapter titles, man.)
> 
> My three favourite barricade boys in order: Courfeyrac, Combeferre, and Enjolras. Yes, there’s one person missing on the list. It would take another few years before Marius gets to talk about Combeferre to anyone else.
> 
> This chapter is over 10k words. I would usually split it up into two, but it works better as a coherent whole because these are two sides of showing how people deal with their grief of those they have lost. Especially the parts that I haven’t really shown so far. So I’m… not really sorry for the sheer tl;dr. I am also not sorry about the focus on the OCs. 
> 
> I think you’re all used to it by this point, sob.


	14. Thirteen, 2148

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All villains have their side of the story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Book II Chapter Fourteen: Thirteen, 2148**
> 
> **Warnings:** Louis-Jérôme. That’s all I’m going to say.

“I really don’t think he’ll care much about what you wear,” Javert said. “Hell, I don’t think he’ll even notice.”

Valjean turned away from the rack of shirts, ties, and jackets that was his closet, giving Javert a sheepish look. “I just want to make sure that he knows I’m sincere about the visit,” he said, rubbing a hand over the top of his head.

“You’ve been sending requests to visit for the past six years,” Javert pointed out. “If he hadn’t accepted this year, you would’ve kept asking. How is that not a better show of sincerity?”

Looking away, Valjean shrugged. Then he picked out a beige jacket, a dark blue tie, and a white shirt, holding all of them up against his bare chest before showing them to Javert.

“Do you think this might work?”

Javert blinked. A quiet huff of laughter escaped him, and he shook his head. “I have no idea,” he said dryly. “Your sense of what’s appropriate clothing is far better than mine.”

He made a vague wave towards his own body, indicating the Inspector’s uniform that he still wore even though it had been years since he had been promoted far above that position. Valjean looked at him, lips twitching, before he shoved the clothes he picked out back into the closet, setting himself back to square one.

“I know it’s a small thing,” he said quietly, leaning his head against the edge of the closet door. “But if it’d help to make sure that he doesn’t think I’m visiting just to mock him, then I want to get it right.”

Swallowing, he looked at Javert out of the corner of his eyes. “Surely he has been lonely for so long. He has suffered for so long. I don’t want to add to it.”

Javert met his gaze for a moment before he sighed, striding the few steps that separated them before he pulled Valjean into his arms. Valjean leaned against him, his hands slipping into Javert’s white-and-grey hair before sliding down to tug on the chain hidden beneath the other man’s collar, letting the warm metal calm him.

“You won’t add to it,” Javert said, tone so fierce that Valjean ached to believe in his words. “If he knows anything about you, if he has heard anything about you, he should know that you’re trying to help him. He’d be a fool to think otherwise.”

“Or someone who just hasn’t heard anything about me,” Valjean protested.

Pulling back, Javert stared at him. His lips twitched again. “I’m pretty sure that he still has news channels on that huge Fountainebleau castle of his,” he said. Then, before Valjean could say anything to refute that – and there was plenty he could say – Javert pressed a thumb against his lips.

“Even if he hasn’t heard a thing, he’d be able to tell within the first few minutes of meeting you,” he continued.

Valjean tugged on Javert’s hair, nudging his head down so he could kiss him with the thumb still wedged between their mouths. He licked it slightly, tasting salt and skin, and watched Javert’s pupils dilate and his breath trip in his throat as he pulled away. 

“If you keep doing that, I’m going to try to convince you that spending the afternoon with me here is a better idea,” Javert said, his voice hoarse. His thumb stroked over Valjean’s mouth again, then over the edges of it, streaking the saliva obscenely.

“But you’re not going to,” Valjean smiled crookedly. 

“I’m going to give it a try if you still don’t believe that he’s not going to care about your clothes,” Javert retorted gruffly. “And that you shouldn’t care even if he does.”

Turning his head, Valjean pressed a kiss on the palm cupping his cheek. “Okay,” he said. He wasn’t entirely convinced, but he doubted that he could be at this point. Besides, he was just delaying. 

“You don’t have to come with me, you know,” he told Javert as he started to take out the same clothes he’d just put back.

Javert shoved his hands into his pockets. “Because I’m so busy that I have better things to do,” he raised an eyebrow. Then, before Valjean could protest – he knew that Javert _was_ busy – he held up a hand.

“Not getting rid of me,” he said. “But I promise I won’t try to provoke him, no matter how much he tries to do the same to me, alright?”

Halfway through buttoning his shirt, Valjean paused. He reached out, taking both of Javert’s hands in his and pressed soft kisses on the rough knuckles.

“That’s all I can ask for,” he said quietly. He knew that it would be hard for Javert, especially if the man in the castle acted in the worst possible way – in the way that Valjean believed he had the right to – at the sight of two of them.

Pulling his hands out of Valjean’s grasp, Javert started buttoning up his shirt for him. Valjean tipped his head back, trying to calm down his racing heart as Javert took the dark blue tie from the closet and started to tie it. Like this, with his eyes dark and focused, his hands efficient as they looped the knot around Valjean’s neck… 

It was surely foolish – they were two old men who had been together for decades – but Javert could still leave him breathless with the smallest things; he could still make heat crawl up Valjean’s spine with how beautiful he looked. The white of his hair and the laugh lines that were spreading out from the corners of his mouth and eyes only added to his beauty.

“There, done,” Javert said. He held out the beige slacks that went with the suit jacket.

Pushing that hand away, Valjean cupped that beloved face with both hands, pulling Javert down and kissing him again. Javert made a tiny sound of protest before he opened his mouth, leaning against Valjean with a low, needy gasp. Their chests pressed against each other, and Valjean knew Javert’s heartbeat well enough by now that he could feel it syncopate itself to the rhythm of his own.

When they finally broke the kiss to breathe, Javert’s hair was a mess from how Valjean had been carding his fingers through the strands, and the collar of his shirt was half turned up. Valjean laughed quietly, picking up his pants from the floor where Javert had dropped them, buttoning them as Javert made a face in the mirror.

“If we’re late, then it’s your fault,” Javert informed him.

“We’re not going to be,” he said, smoothing out a lock of hair that was sticking up from Javert’s forehead. “There’s still plenty of time.”

Javert snorted, not even bothering to contradict him. Well, it _was_ Valjean who had insisted that they should start preparing for their meeting at Fountainebleau at ten in the morning when it was scheduled for three o’clock, and the town was, at most, an hour away by car. 

He checked his watch – it was one-thirty. “But we should go now,” he said.

“We’ll get there too early,” Javert pointed out.

Valjean dodged the hand reaching for him, grabbing for his belt and putting it on. When Javert sighed exaggeratedly heavy in response, he didn’t stifle the smile, instead turning around to allow the taller man to help him into his suit jacket.

“Better than late,” he said, tipping his head back to kiss Javert on the cheek.

“Alright, alright,” Javert grumbled. He took Valjean’s hand, kissing it again. Valjean smiled at him, tightening his grip before he pulled him out of the room and the house into the car that Cosette prepared for them.

*

The celebration on the streets was in full swing. Outside Notre Dame, the car slowed to a crawl to avoid the makeshift stalls – selling candies and art pieces and everything in between – and the people who milled around. Valjean laughed at the sight of a few groups of young people who were dancing in the middle of the street to the music blasting from the projection spheres hovering around them. 

Seventeenth of August: a day without work, officially declared a public holiday four years ago when no one in Paris turned up to their workplaces, instead pouring out onto the streets to celebrate the anniversary of their Président’s inauguration day; the official beginning of the French Sixth Republic. Once night fell, the makeshift platform built in front of Notre Dame would turn into a stage filled with performers, and Valjean knew that M. Philippe, Mathieu, and the rest of their young friends would be there as well, giving speeches and celebrating alongside their people.

If the meeting with Louis-Jérôme went well enough, he and Javert would be there too. Valjean had asked Cosette for fifteen minutes on the stage – he didn’t like speaking in public, and he was still uncomfortable with the thought that people would hang onto his every word. But if it meant that he would be able to tell Louis-Jérôme’s story to the people of Paris, if he could stop them from placing him as the villain of their own, then his own discomfort didn’t matter. He would do it, and do it gladly.

“I wonder what he thinks whenever this day comes,” Valjean said quietly. “I wonder what crosses his mind when he sees the celebration.”

Javert turned away from where he was staring out of the window to give Valjean a raised eyebrow. “What would a man think about a day when people celebrate getting rid of him?”

“That’s not what the celebration is for,” Valjean protested.

“They’re celebrating the fall of his regime,” Javert snorted. “That’s pretty much synonymous with getting rid of him.” 

Looking out of the window, Valjean took in the sight of the people of Paris, laughing joyous and carefree. “Don’t you think that’s unfair?” he asked quietly. “That they are celebrating the destruction of everything he has worked so hard for?”

“That ‘everything’,” Javert said, soft and measured, “is what caused them so much pain and suffering. It’d be more unfair to stop them from celebrating.”

Valjean reached out, taking Javert’s larger hand in his and squeezing it. After a moment, Javert sighed, leaning back against the leather seat of the car, the anger fading from his eyes.

“I know that’s how you think of him,” he said once Javert met his eyes again. “But he’s a man as well.”

“Sure, but that doesn’t mean that he’s not a coward,” Javert stated flatly. “It has been five years since he came out of that castle he’s holed himself up in. There are still things he could’ve done – I know that M. Philippe offered him an advisory position in the government – but all he’s done is to hide himself away.”

“That’s unfair,” Valjean protested. “I don’t think you can expect him, or anyone, to serve and aid the very people who destroyed all that he worked for.”

Javert barked a laugh, low and rough. “Of course I can,” he said, his hand coming up to tug on his silver chain. “That’s what I’ve done, isn’t it?”

Valjean smiled to himself. He moved over the seat, leaning his head against Javert’s shoulder as he took both long-fingered hands into his own.

“But it has been hard for you, and you’re braver than most.” He met Javert’s gaze, holding it so the other man couldn’t protest.

“That’s…” Javert trailed off. He shook his head. “He could’ve admitted publicly that he was wrong. That’s the least of what he could have given, and yet he still didn’t.”

“Given to who?” Valjean blinked.

“To everyone who was wronged by his policies,” Javert said. Then he turned away, staring out of the car window again. “Mathieu and M. Philippe, for two. Hell, even Khulai. And…” he hesitated. When he looked at Valjean again, his smile was wry and self-deprecating.

“You.”

 _Ah_. Valjean had been wondering why Javert seemed so enraged by Louis-Jérôme, and now he knew. Leaning in, he pressed a kiss onto Javert’s mouth, soft and lingering.

“I’m not angry at what he’s done,” he said quietly, sliding a hand into Javert’s hair, careful to not muss it up too much. 

“And you’re wrong: he _did_ do something in reparation. He refused to convict me again,” _or you_ , he wanted to say, but he knew better at this point than to allow Javert any chance to spiral back into self-loathing and guilt, “and he didn’t arrest Marius or Cosette even when it became clear that they were going against him. He listened to the people’s wishes and abdicated.”

“Lack of action isn’t action,” Javert insisted, shaking his head. “And you _know_ that he only abdicated because the people would’ve risen and killed him otherwise.”

“Do I?” Valjean cocked his head. “Do you? There have been violent uprisings in the past, Javert, and none of them succeeded.”

“None of those revolutions had the police on their side,” Javert said, brows creasing. “None of those had M. Philippe and Frey on their side either.”

Valjean sighed, running a hand over his bald head. “Maybe his motivations were selfish,” he conceded. “But that doesn’t mean that what he has done isn’t commendable still. Isn’t his abdication an apology enough?”

“Not for me,” Javert said. He pulled out of Valjean’s grasp, leaning against the car’s door, lips pressed into a line. When Valjean didn’t speak, only holding onto his gaze, he sighed again, rubbing a hand over his face.

“I know that you’ve forgiven him already,” he said quietly. “But that doesn’t mean that I can. Not after all that he’s done.”

Raising one of Javert’s hands, Valjean pressed a kiss onto the knuckles again. “I know,” he said, voice just as soft. “But all I’m asking is for you to give him a chance.”

There was a long moment when Javert didn’t say a word. Then he nodded, some tension seeping from his shoulders.

“For your sake. Not for his.”

That wasn’t what Valjean wanted. Javert shouldn’t compromise on his principles, on what he believed to be right, for his sake. But he knew, too, that Javert was still uncertain after all these years about what justice meant, and he looked towards Valjean for guidance. Valjean still didn’t know if his own sense of righteousness could be trusted, but if he could help to illuminate the path for Javert, if he could help ease some of that doubt…

“I suppose that’s all I can ask for,” he said.

Javert squeezed the hand in his, his lips quirking up once more into a smile that didn’t fully reach his eyes. “I’ll listen to what he says,” he told Valjean. “But you won’t be able to convince me to give him more if he still shows himself to be nothing more than a bastard.”

The knot in Valjean’s chest loosened, and he laughed quietly.

“Alright.”

Silence fell over them again, comfortable and warm like a worn, well-used blanket. Javert leaned against him, too tall to actually rest his head on Valjean’s shoulder but doing his best anyway. Valjean’s hand rubbed over the back of his neck, soothing the muscles there so a crick wouldn’t develop. 

The car turned into the little town that surrounded the Castle Fountainebleau. It had used to be a heavily-populated town, with plenty of Ministers living in the mansions and hotels that dotted the town, and those lower-ranked who lived in the cottages, providing the services that enabled the Ministers’ ways of life. 

But the past few years saw the seat of power moved northwards towards Bourbon, and all of the ranks that had kept up the Napoleon regime destroyed with its collapse. Now Fountainebleau was practically a ghost town – the spacious mansions had unkempt lawns and gardens decorated with ‘For Sale’ signs and holographic photographs of real estate agents; the street that had used to hold the weekly markets echoed with their silence, so stark after the chaotic noise of the other parts of Paris; the statues of Napoleons past and present gathering dirt and rust. Valjean did not see another soul until they reached the gates of the Castle, and even then, the soldiers – part of the French Army now that the National Guard had been dissolved – who stood at attention were entirely unmoving.

What did it feel like to watch the place that people had once flocked towards standing empty, day after day? Valjean had no answer; he had no experiences that could allow him to imagine what that felt like. There was only this persistent ache in his chest, a phantom pain that surely belonged to the man who had voluntarily shut himself within that large, looming Castle which now knew no other footsteps other than his own. 

They were expected: the soldiers opened the gates at the sight of their car, and they lifted their caps – no longer visors, not after M. Chabouillet rehauled the police uniforms as his first act as Préfect – in greeting. When Valjean got out of the car, Javert beside him, a young man who could be no older than Hughes came towards them.

“Monsieur Valjean, Monsieur Javert,” he nodded to each of them in turn. There was a small, bashful smile on his face, and his brown skin was dusted with pink. “It’s an honour.”

Before he could turn away to lead them towards Louis-Jérôme, Valjean held out his hand.

“What is your name?” he asked.

When the young man stared at them, eyes wide and uncomprehending, Javert snorted. “You have us at a disadvantage,” he pointed out. “That’s not being fair, is it?”

“Uh,” the boy said. He reached out and took Valjean’s hand, eyes fixed downwards to the ground even as he shook it firmly. “Blaise Marchand. You don’t know me, sir, but I…” 

He swallowed. Valjean waited patiently.

“I used to belong to St. Expeditus’s Workers.” When he noticed that Valjean and Javert were both staring at him, he stammered: “Clémence Duval’s old faction, Messieurs. We… we dissolved after the inauguration.”

“We recognise the name,” Javert said flatly. When the boy – Marchand – turned to him, he barked a laugh. “We just didn’t expect one of you to be guarding this old bastard here.”

Marchand blinked. He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes darting from side to side. “Well, Messieurs,” he began, voice so soft that Valjean leaned in a little in order to hear him, “if I’m honest about it, sometimes I still think it’d be better if we’ve overthrown him properly. Make a guillotine and put his head on it, like those stories of history.” 

Valjean shuddered. The boy surely noticed, because he ducked his head down even further. “But M. Duval said that dead people make for martyrs to be worshipped in later years, so…” He shrugged. “That’s not a very good idea.”

“Did you ask for this assignment?” Javert asked, eyes narrowing.

“Yes, Monsieur,” Marchand nodded. He shrugged. “It’s probably terrible, but I wanted to see him suffer.”

Duval had done what he could to quiet down his faction’s cries for the blood of the old aristocracy. But Valjean realised, heart twisting as he looked at the burning fire in this young man’s gaze, that mere words and logic could not abate hatred. It still ran strong in this country, and he didn’t know if he could ever erase it.

He didn’t know if he should even _try_ , because he knew nothing of this boy’s story. What if hatred was the only way that he’d learned how to live? Valjean had the Bishop, but that exalted man was dead, and Valjean never learned how to heal others as he had. 

“Have you?” Javert asked the question that was stuck in Valjean’s throat.

“I guess,” Marchand shrugged. “He doesn’t talk much. He just watches the old broadcasts, mostly. The news too, sometimes. He reads too.” 

After a moment, he added, “Watching him gets really boring, to be honest.”

Javert’s eyes slid towards Valjean, meeting his gaze for a moment. Perhaps it was because they had spent the better part of the morning and early afternoon talking about and around Louis-Jérôme, but they seemed to grasp a sudden understanding of the man that the boy didn’t seem to have. 

It was something that Valjean refused to put into words even in his own head. He came here to try to get Louis-Jérôme’s story from his own mouth; he would not assume even a part of it, no matter the temptation.

Marchand missed their exchange, because he took a step back and gave him the same bashful smile as before. “I better lead you to him, Messieurs,” he said.

As they followed him past the main door of the house – which Marchand opened using his handprint on the scanner – Javert spoke again, his hands shoved into his pockets.

“Don’t you want to know why we’re here?”

“Isn’t it to see how low he’s sunk, Monsieur?” Marchand asked, turning back to blink at the two of them.

Javert laughed, a sound dark and bitter. The sound echoed eerily down the empty hallway, mixing with the rhythmic thuds of their feet on the wooden floorboards. Valjean fought down a shiver.

“I suppose I can say that I’m here to do that,” Javert told the boy. “But Valjean is a far better man than I am.”

Hesitating, Valjean rubbed the back of his neck. “You’ll probably think it an old man’s foolishness,” he said quietly, “but there have been so much said of him, M. Marchand, and I want to… I want to hear what he’d say of himself.”

Marchand stopped. His last step was so loud that its echo surrounded all three of them, beating against their ears. He stared at Valjean incredulously.

“ _Why_?” he asked.

“No matter what he’s done, he’s still a man,” Valjean said, and the words came easier to him now that he had said them to Javert. “Every man deserves to have his own story heard.”

The boy opened his mouth, then closed it. “Hah,” he said, starting to walk again. After long moments, he shook his head. 

“We’re here.”

They stood outside a pair of huge double-doors that seemed as likely to lead towards a bedroom as a ballroom. Valjean stared at them, taking a deep, steadying breath. Javert’s hand rose to rest on his shoulder, and Valjean reached for the doorknob.

“Monsieur,” Marchand called. As Valjean turned, he saw the boy hesitate before he said, finally, “Good luck in getting his story out of him. If there’s anyone who can, I think it’d be you.”

Valjean would never understand it; the faith that people put into him. He could only nod and hope that it wasn’t misplaced. Then he turned back to the door, and pushed it open.

He had never been to the insides of Castle Fountainebleau before, but he immediately recognised the room. This was Louis-Jérôme’s study, the same room where he gave all of his speeches, and it had been left entirely untouched. Here was the same metal-and-glass desk with its accompanying blank holographic screens, once state-of-art but now outdated by a few years. Here were the bookshelves filled with books that had once been the privilege of the Maison de Napoléon, but now were a common sight in the homes of anyone who wished to have them. Here were the ceiling-to-floor windows, once looking out towards a bustling town, and now opening only towards empty streets.

Here was the same high-backed leather chair, and the proud head that peeked out from the top of it; once, the hair had been grey, now it was white.

“When I received your first request,” Louis-Jérôme said, his back still to them, “I thought it was a rather transparent mockery. What need has of the victor to ask the defeated permission to enter his home? All conquerors invade, all thieves break in. The very sight of you must have those _soldiers_ ,” he made the epithet sound like a curse, “scrambling to obey your every word.”

Valjean placed a hand on Javert’s arm to stop him from lurching forward, from speaking. He shook his head without looking away from Louis-Jérôme.

“Then the requests came again and again. I thought, this is surely no mockery, but a joke. A laugh to be had amongst the victors.” He paused.

When his chair swung around, his eyes were bright and burning with defiance and pride. But it was not they that drew Valjean’s gaze – it was the shadows and lines that seemed carved deep into Louis-Jérôme’s skin.

“Tell me, Jean Valjean, how much did you laugh with my son over my acceptance of your request?”

“M. Philippe does not know that I am here,” Valjean said, keeping his voice even and steady so he would not betray the ache in his chest at the sight of a man so broken and worn.

“Oh?” Louis-Jérôme raised an eyebrow. “Why did you not tell him?”

“He would have asked for my reasons,” Valjean said, “and when I told him, he would insist that he could tell me plenty about yourself. But that is not enough, Monsieur, and if I tell him that, he will be hurt.”

Valjean’s lips quirked up into a wry smile. “I do not wish to hurt him.”

“What,” Louis-Jérôme said, eyes narrowing into slits, “are your reasons, Jean Valjean?”

Spreading his hands out, Valjean’s smile widened, softening at the edges. “I wanted to hear your side of the story,” he said simply.

Louis-Jérôme froze. Slowly, he cocked his head back. As Valjean watched, his shoulders began to shake. When he laughed, his voice was loud, uproariously so, genuine mirth twined so deeply with bitterness that Valjean could not breathe for how much his chest ached for him.

Then Louis-Jérôme stopped. He rested his hands on the edge of the desk, leaning forward.

“Throughout these years, there have been many men who came to me,” he said, his voice low and tone poisonous. “Powerful men, men with the ability and money to raise armies; men whom I once favoured. They promised to restore me to my position. They spoke grandly of putting down this _Sixth Republic_ ,” he spat the words out, “that my son now heads. They tell me, with relish, the dreams they have to put my son’s head on a pike and carry it through the streets like people did in the old days.”

He smiled, baring teeth. “They told me that my son’s head isn’t the only one they had plans for. They told me about your head,” his eyes slid towards Javert, “and yours too.”

“Why did you refuse?” Valjean asked, keeping his own voice calm even though the images those words conjured were terrifying.

Barking another laugh, cold and mirthless this time, Louis-Jérôme shrugged extravagantly. “They wanted me as nothing but their puppet,” he said. “A counter-revolution for _my_ sake, they said, but those are lies: they wanted only their own power, and me to be a prop by their sides.”

Valjean shook his head slowly. “Why did you refuse?” he repeated.

Louis-Jérôme looked at him. His elbows rose to rest on the desk, and his hands steepled beneath his chin. He didn’t speak for long moments. Valjean squeezed Javert’s wrist, out of Louis-Jérôme’s sight, to urge for patience.

He had a pretty good guess at what the answer might be, but he wanted to know if Louis-Jérôme would say it.

Finally, the man who no longer had anyone to listen to him moved: he leaned backwards against his leather chair, and the flames in his eyes dimmed, deepening the shadows beneath them even further. His gaze did not leave Valjean’s.

“Years ago, far before Philippe or even Mathieu were born, there was a revolution in Paris,” he said. His voice had grown soft. “My father had just managed to unify the country, and we had moved into Fountainebleau. At the height of the revolution, the people broke into the Castle.”

Valjean knew of this story. It had happened even before the twenty-first century turned into the twenty-second; when the Napoleon regime was completely new and had barely found its footing. He didn’t need the history books to remember: the ripples of that particular revolution had caused the uprising in Montdidier that killed his sister’s husband.

But he didn’t interrupt.

“I can still remember them,” Louis-Jérôme continued, his voice now flat and blank. “The masks they wore, white with streaks of red; their screams as they tore through our home. They chased my sister through the hallways, and laughed at the sound of her fright. They held a knife to my throat.”

Tipping his head back, he pulled down his collar to show the scar that everyone in the country knew – a single slice from one side to the other. Valjean wondered if Louis-Jérôme knew that there were many people in the country who said that he should have died from it.

“What happened afterwards?” Valjean asked.

“They were all killed,” Louis-Jérôme shrugged. “The man holding that knife was shot at the back of his head.” His lips twisted into a smile. “Blood and brains all over my suit. Old Luc-Esprit bought me a new one after it.”

Javert took a sharp intake of breath, and Valjean could barely stop himself from following suit. So it was _M. Gillenormand_ who had fired the bullet that saved Louis-Jérôme’s life. Pieces suddenly snapped together – Marius had once said that it was M. Gillenormand who managed to stop his father from being executed, but he never knew how he had done it; now Valjean did.

Louis-Jérôme didn’t seem to notice their surprise. His eyes weren’t looking at either of them anymore. “They were nothing more than animals, barely even human,” he said. His gaze snapped back into focus, and he bared even more of his teeth into a macabre grin.

“They have never been. They can never be. No matter what anyone tries to believe.”

“There has been a peaceful revolution,” Valjean said quietly. “Has that not changed your mind?”

“Have you not heard about those men who have come to me?” Louis-Jérôme spread out his hands. “How long will this _peace_ last, Jean Valjean? How long will it take before everything breaks out into civil war again?”

“It won’t.”

Valjean started – Javert had stayed silent for so long that it was a visceral shock to hear his voice. He turned towards him, and squeezed the wrist in his hand again at the sight of the tight, white line of Javert’s lips.

”Oh?” Louis-Jérôme asked mockingly. “Are you going to tell me to have hope, like so many others did?”

“No,” Javert said, the word clipped and sharp. He took a deep breath, his wrist twisting in Valjean’s hand until he could tangle their fingers together, still out of Louis-Jérôme’s sight.

“People are only beasts if you give them cause to be,” he continued, his voice even and sure. “Rage, hatred, fear, or even a life where violence is the only solution to anything. People are beasts when they are _desperate_.”

He gestured towards the windows. “Now they’re not. Now you have people who guard you well even though they hate you.” He paused significantly. “And even when you have tried your best to make them desperate, to prove yourself right, there were plenty who were never beasts.” 

Before Louis-Jérôme could lose his temper – Valjean could see the signs – he leaned forward, catching the man’s gaze with his own.

“Which others are you talking about, Monsieur?” he asked quietly.

Louis-Jérôme blinked. He pressed his lips into a line, not speaking for another long stretch of time before he shrugged, the motion so large that it immediately rang false.

“My sister and her husband,” he said. “My wife.”

He laughed, a chokingly hollow sound. “They tried to have hope that the people could be better, and they died for it. Fools, all of them.” His lips twisted into a snarl. “And my son will, too.”

“No,” Javert said. His chair scraped against the floor as he stood, and he slammed his hands down onto the desk hard enough to make it shake. “Hope didn’t kill them. The people didn’t kill them. _You_ did.”

“How dare--” Louis-Jérôme spat out, his hands gripping on the arms of his chair.

“Does it help you sleep at night to think that you are _justified_ in dissolving your sister’s marriage?” Javert asked, his words barely coherent through the growl in his throat. “Does it make you feel better for treating her son like a _slave_? Does it soothe you to think that you’re not at fault for driving your wife to suicide?”

Reaching out, he avoided Valjean’s grasping hands to grip tightly onto Louis-Jérôme’s tie, pulling him forward and staring him in the eye.

“It’s not a good excuse, you know,” he said, voice dipping low into a whisper. “Men invaded your home and made you afraid. So what? Do you think it excuses you from all the pain you have caused? All of the _fear_?”

Javert’s head snapped back as Louis-Jérôme’s fist landed on his cheek. He let go, but didn’t stumble backwards. He stood there, his eyes a pair of blue fires burning with rage.

Valjean had never seen him so angry. Not even in Fantine’s hospital room, after he finally caught up with the mayor whom he had obeyed for years, the man who was nothing more than a sham.

“You know _nothing_ of me,” Louis-Jérôme snarled

“Oh, I know enough,” Javert threw right back. “I’ve _heard_ enough. Enough that the sight of you disgusts me. You are nothing more than a coward.”

He barked a laugh, harsh and grating. “No, you’re not even worth being called a man. You’re a _beast_ , so selfish that you blinded yourself to the truth and ruined the lives of the very country you were supposed to protect.”

“Enough,” Valjean said. He stepped forward, grabbing onto Javert, arms wrapping around his lover’s chest. “Enough, Javert, enough.”

Javert looked at him, uncomprehending, before he jerked his head to glare at Louis-Jérôme again. “Valjean came here to hear your side of the story. You ruined his life with the laws you made, and still he’s willing to come here to hear you out. Do you still think him a beast?”

Wrenching himself out of Valjean’s grasp, he shoved himself forward until he was nose-to-nose with Louis-Jérôme. “ _Do you_?”

Grabbing Javert by his arm, Valjean pulled. He might be older now, but his strength had not diminished – he was still stronger than Javert ever was. “It’s alright,” he said. “Enough,”

“No,” Javert said, struggling. “It’s not. Let me go--”

“ _Enough_!” Valjean snapped out, putting as much command in his voice as he could. Javert jerked in his arms, eyes widening, and there was a flicker of betrayal in those beloved eyes that felt like a stab of cold steel into Valjean’s heart.

But he stilled, going lax, his lungs heaving for air.

“Monsieur,” he said, turning back towards Louis-Jérôme. The man was frozen, eyes wide and lips parted; he had never looked less like the dictator Valjean had watched on holographic screens all of these years.

“My apologies. If you like, we can continue our conversation at another time,” Valjean continued, starting to move backwards towards the double doors. As he twisted the doorknob, still practically dragging Javert with him, he hesitated.

“Thank you,” he said finally. “For not having any of us arrested when I knew you could.”

Then he sketched as low a bow as he could while not letting go of Javert, and stumbled out of the room.

Once the door slammed shut by themselves behind him, he grabbed Javert by his coat lapels, turning him around and shoving him against the wood. Javert gasped, his eyes clearing slightly. Valjean looked around him – the hallway was deserted – and though Louis-Jérôme was still past the door, he gritted his teeth.

And closed his hand around Javert’s throat. 

Immediately, Javert’s entire body stiffened. He made a sound, low and desperate, and his eyes squeezed shut. Valjean squeezed, cutting off his air, and Javert’s hands came up to his shoulders, digging his nails hard into the flesh.

When Valjean let go, he sagged completely, falling forward, and Valjean wrapped his arm around his back, fingers slipping beneath the collar of his shirt to tug on the silver chain. A reminder.

“Why,” Javert said hoarsely. “Why did you stop me? He deserved it. He—” His mouth clicked shut when Valjean shook his head.

“Come with me,” he said. He waited until Javert nodded, and led him out of the main door, then the gates. Marchand tried to approach them, but Valjean shook his head, mouthing “another time” to the boy even as he shoved Javert into the car. He pressed the series of buttons that told the car to lead them back to Rue Plumet.

Then he tugged at Javert, urging him down and easing him to sprawl out over the car seat with his head on Valjean’s lap.

“I stopped you when you were no longer yelling at him, but at yourself,” he said softly.

“No, I,” Javert started, then clicked his mouth shut. He turned away, pressing his cheek hard into Valjean’s thigh. Valjean stroked his fingers gently through his hair.

“Was that what I was doing?” Javert asked, his voice muffled.

“It was,” Valjean said, absolutely certain despite the voice in his head telling him that he shouldn’t be. He knew Javert well enough by now that it wasn’t an assumption.

“Oh.” After a moment, Javert shifted, turning around until his eyes were blinking up to Valjean. “But I was right, wasn’t I?”

“I don’t know,” Valjean said. He rested a finger over Javert’s mouth before he could protest, and turned his eyes towards the empty town speeding past them. “How can we judge a man’s scars when we don’t know how deeply they run?”

“You have scars,” Javert said, kissing his finger and turning his head away from it. His hand rose, fingers splaying over Valjean’s chest, over the brand that was still there beneath the shirt and would always be. “Your scars run deeper than his do, and are far more numerous. But you are a good man. You are the best I know.”

“Can we really say that?” Valjean murmured, meeting Javert’s eyes again. “Can we really dismiss what he went through just because we think it’s not enough?”

Javert’s brows knitted together as he considered the questions. Surely they were foolish, but he was giving such thought to them. Valjean stroked his hand over his hair again, feeling the knot in his chest loosen from the swell of love he felt for this man.

After a moment, he huffed out a laugh, the lines beside his eyes crinkling as he shrugged. “I’m a policeman,” he said dryly. “I arrest people according to the laws made, and I throw them to the courts. I’m not the one who decides the laws; I just carry them out.”

He turned, pressing a gentle kiss onto Valjean’s wrist, right above those corded scars. “I would arrest him if I could,” he continued. “But I don’t know if it would be a justifiable arrest at all.”

Valjean leaned down and kissed him. When he pulled away, Javert’s smile was sheepish. “I’m not helping at all, am I?”

“You are,” Valjean countered, his own lips curving up into a smile. “I don’t think that you can help me decide, not about this, but…” He kissed Javert again. “You’re deciding. You’re condemning him, without help from me. Without condemning yourself.”

He brushed a strand of hair away from Javert’s face.

“That’s definitely helping.”

Javert blinked up at him, confused for a moment. Then he laughed, soft and self-deprecating, and tugged Valjean down for a kiss.

“Guess so,” he murmured, his words breathed out between their mouths. “And it only took me fourteen years.”

Valjean smiled. He tilted his head up, and kissed Javert’s ear, right at the hairline where the roots grew white.

“We have time.” 

***

When Cosette called to ask if he would still like those minutes up on the stage in front of Notre Dame, Valjean said no without a second thought.

Throughout these years, he had heard many stories – from men and women and even children who came to him for help, to spill their secrets and fears. Valjean kept all of them deep within his heart, and he told only some to others. 

Louis-Jérôme’s story wasn’t one for him to tell. Not right now. Perhaps in the future, when the man himself decided that it was time for the world to know. Or perhaps even further yet, when historians took interest in the man who was the villain of a successful revolutionary tale.

Let the people of that future judge, then. Let them decide what to think of Louis-Jérôme; to praise him, or to condemn him. Let those historians save him from the role of the villain, if that was what they wished.

Valjean couldn’t. He didn’t think he ever could decide, and, if he was honest to himself, he did not wish to even try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Villains can have their own stories, but that doesn’t really redeem them. Sometimes Freudian excuses are just that – excuses.
> 
> I don’t know what it says about me that the three main bastards of this entire series – Thénardier, Tholomyés, and Louis-Jérôme – are all fathers of my main characters. My only saving grace is that my main protagonists are also fathers.
> 
> Also, it seems that romance is only possible for me when it comes to Valjean and Javert. /stares at everyone else who has practically no romantic scenes, and stares back at these two old men.


	15. Fourteen, 2149

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The not-King finds a successor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Book II Chapter Fifteen: Fourteen, 2149**
> 
> **Warnings:** Politics and discussions on the nature of governance. Also another OC.

When the door slammed open, so hard that the knob smacked against the wall, Philippe jerked his head up from where he had buried it in his hands.

“You’ve got to see this,” Mathieu declared. He kicked the door back shut, hands occupied by gripping his holographic projector so tight that his white knuckles stood out.

“If it’s another post about the possible history of a country that I haven’t been to, I don’t want to see it,” Philippe said pre-emptively.

None of them had managed to get the Internet back up and working – there wasn’t enough money for the satellites required, and their diplomatic relations with other countries were still not strong enough to the point where they could ask to borrow their satellites without being asked to hand over things they weren’t willing to give – but the intranet within France itself was still alive. Thriving nowadays, in fact, as more and more people outside of Paris made use of it to get their leaders to understand their particular circumstances.

Mathieu snorted. “There’s no other country that you’ve been to,” he pointed out. “Or me, either. But that’s not the point.”

“So what’s the point?”

“Look at this,” Mathieu said. He dropped down to sit opposite Philippe, switching on the projector in his hand. It flickered on, words immediately appearing in the air around them. “Here.”

Rubbing his eyes with one hand, Philippe reached out with the other, magnifying those words and pulling them down so he didn’t have to crane his neck to read the beginning. He recognised the website immediately – it was one of those new blogging platforms that popped up a couple of years ago and gained steam within the past few months as the end of Philippe’s first term loomed – but it was the title of the article that had him blinking. 

“ _Better is Still Not Good Enough_ ,” he read out loud. “Is this another complaining post?” They had received quite a few of those lately – people talking about the flaws in the new system that they had put in place. Though Philippe was incredibly glad that the people were willing to speak, he couldn’t help but wish that they would step up to try to solve those problems they were pointing out. 

Or even give some possible ideas for solutions. That’s the least Philippe asked for, honestly. 

“Not exactly,” Mathieu said. When Philippe turned towards him, he shook his head again, his hands flapping helplessly in the air. “Just read it. It’s worth your time, I promise.”

Philippe would trust Mathieu with his life. So he nodded, and turned back to the post. His fingers trailed over the letters as he read out loud:

 _Frequent readers of my blog will know the project I’m currently embarking upon. In case you are new here, let me restate it: I have dedicated the entirety of the past year to travelling around France, taking photographs and listening to the stories of the people who live away from Paris. If you’re here looking for those, stop reading and click on the tag named ‘the abased’. This post isn’t a photograph or a story; it is, instead, a culmination of all of the work that I have done in the past year. I have denied myself the privilege of voicing out my thoughts and opinions so far because I have waited until this moment_.

“Why haven’t I heard about this project?” Philippe asked. “For the matter, why haven’t I heard about this guy at all?”

“He’s been keeping himself entirely behind the camera so far,” Mathieu said. “And most of what he’s shown has been what you, Marius, and Cosette already know, so I didn’t want to bring it up.” He nudged at Philippe’s shoulder. 

“Keep reading.”

_On my return to Paris a week ago, I looked upon the city. I took note of all the changes that have happened to it since four years ago when Louis-Jérôme of the Napoleon regime fell and was replaced by our Président M. Philippe. Let me state it right out: I am grateful for the changes that have been made; I understand that my ability to sit here and write this post criticising our government is a privilege hard-won. However, I believe that my gratitude should not stop me from pointing out the errors within the current system._

_‘But it has only been four years,’ I can already hear you protesting. ‘Change takes a long time to occur.’ I understand the point. But those are words that lead us too easily into complacency, and it is this time when all is new that we must not be complacent. Policies set in by our leaders are the foundation upon which our new Republic is built; as citizens, as those who will be directly affected by those policies, is it not our duty to ensure that foundation is as strong as it can be?_

_As a result, I have a few suggestions regarding that foundation. My primary areas of concerns are the plight of the farmers, the voting system, and our police._

“… Wow.” Philippe breathed.

Mathieu nodded, reaching over the table to place a hand on Philippe’s shoulder. “Yeah,” he said, voice soft. “Keep reading.” __

_On my first area of concern: throughout my travels in France, I met many farmers, most of them of the older generation. They had fallen back into that particular occupation during the civil wars. As a result, their methods have degraded, and they suffer in the same way as they did in the nineteenth century, in fact. All students of history have heard of the Industrial Revolution of that period, wherein the poor farmers found their work snatched from their hands by machines, their generations-long knowledge devalued because they were not as quick or efficient as those cold things. The plight of our current farmers is exactly the same at this moment, and that is entirely unbecoming of our twenty-second century._

_Looking around in Paris. The gardens of those with the capacity to afford them are groomed by artificial intelligence: designs are coded into the consoles, and a press of a button will have one’s gardens following in the design one has chosen in but a few hours. These machines are not exactly expensive either; we have enough knowledge of their manufacturing process for them to be sold at only a few thousand dollars. The fruits and vegetables grown in these machine-groomed gardens all look and taste exactly the same._

_I have taken pictures of a particular apple orchard in a small town located two hours’ drive southwest of Gironde, in Aquitaine. The apples grown there look different from the apples sold in Parisian markets: dull red with yellow spots instead of a gleaming scarlet that resembles blood in sunlight. But what the picture could not capture was the apple’s taste: it was far more tart than sweet, with a slight sour tinge. The farmer I interviewed offered me some of the jam he made from his apples, and it went beautifully with the dark rye flatbread._

_The apples, the jam – they were delicious. They were unique._

_M. Marius Pontmercy fought for every man’s circumstances to be recognised by law. That statement has been the start of the revolution that brought our current world into being. Can we not, then, extend it beyond the law, to the very food we eat? Can we not recognise that France is not merely Paris, not merely the seat of the government, but the people who live in regions so far away from our capital? Their ways of life, their philosophies, all that they offer, even down to the food they eat – they are of as much value as that of Parisians._

_‘Ideas,’ I heard you scoff. ‘How is anyone supposed to do that?’ Well, I do offer a solution, albeit a short term one: we can change the purpose of our current machines. It should not be too difficult for the scientists and engineers to recode the machines such that they_ aid _instead of_ replace _the minds and labour of men. Remove the encoded methods, recode new ones taken from our farmers. Give these machines to the farmers themselves, so that they do not have to suffer back-breaking work to make food to be sold to the rest of the country._

_Open our minds not just to the circumstances of every single criminal in the law court, but every single person, period. Taste the apples of Aquitaine, the pears of Midi-Pyrérenées, the goat milk of Rhȏne-Alpes, and so many other things. We must appreciate France as a whole; we must go beyond Paris._

“That’s…” Philippe breathed. He dragged his hand through his hair, blinking hard. “That’s actually economically viable.”

He turned to Mathieu and grabbed his brother’s hands, practically shaking them. “Look, what we can do is to offer subsidies towards the big companies to make the modifications that this man is talking about, and then loan them to the farmers. We’ll also give subsidies and loans to small farmers for the first couple of harvests so that they will have the money to export their particular goods out of the country, and get the markets to sell them… It’ll be good for the economy when money starts moving faster around the country instead of just within Paris.”

“Yeah,” Mathieu nodded, a grin slowly blooming on his face. “Keep reading. It gets better.”

Philippe turned back to the post, scrolling down.

 _But that is merely a short-term solution. The plight of our farmer goes beyond their current poverty; it is that they are incapable of escaping that poverty. The low sales of their goods are only part of it. These farmers are uneducated: they do not have a chance for education. M. Mathieu Frey has set up schools around the country for both children and adults, but classes for the latter have woefully low enrolment. This is not the farmers’ fault, but M. Frey’s_.

“Why didn’t you tell me about the low enrolment?” Philippe demanded.

Mathieu rolled his eyes. “I’m not going to tell you about every single setback that I hit,” he said, voice bland. “You have enough on your plate already.”

Opening his mouth to argue, Philippe shut it after another moment, because Mathieu was right. The position of the Education Minister existed just so that the Président didn’t have to look at every single problem and think up of every single solution in the country. 

Still, he glared. “You should’ve told me,” he said. 

“What would you have done about it?” Mathieu sniped back, rolling his eyes. “I couldn’t think up of a solution, Philippe, and I know the system like the back of my hand.” He had crafted it from practically nothing, after all. “You don’t know everything about the system. All I would have been doing would be to add even more worries onto your plate.”

Well, there was nothing Philippe could argue about that. He sighed. “Fine,” he said, shaking his head. “Let’s see what this man says about it then.”

_M. Frey’s curriculum is one that is entirely unsuited for the farmers. None of them are interested in learning about the French language or the history of the country; much less the history of the world that extends beyond their farms. The children should be educated about this, but the schools for the adults should focus more on helping the farmers better their current circumstances._

_Teach them not only arithmetic, but accountancy; teach them business models instead of history; teach them the ways that they could use machines in their work. I would go further than to suggest a revamping of curriculum, but to stop the construction of the current schools for adults. Send out the teachers to the farmers instead, and teach them by example how to better their lives. It will take more time and resources, but surely a better foundation for the country and the betterment of the lives of those living within it are worth such a thing?_

“I’m actually taking that idea and implementing it practically wholesale, by the way,” Mathieu interrupted. “I just need to think up of ways to recruit teachers who know how to do what he mentioned and who are willing to do it.”

Philippe nodded. “Yeah,” he said, sounding distracted. “Don’t think that’s hard to do, actually. Do we not have plenty of wealthy young men and women looking for a new purpose?” __

 __“Exactly.” __

_What to do with those buildings already built? Reuse them for schools for children instead. This solution works hand-in-hand with the other – if the farmers have machines to aid them with back-breaking manual labour, then they have no need for the children’s work on the farm. Those children can go to school and learn instead; they learn the ways they can contribute to building a brighter future generation for the country._

“Well, that’s one thing he admits that you’ve done right,” Philippe said, squeezing Mathieu’s hand.

“I’m flattered,” Mathieu said. When Philippe raised an eyebrow at him, he chuckled, shaking his head. “No, I actually am. He’s been pretty accurate with all of the analysis he’d done so far, so that’s high praise.”

Philippe nodded. He continued reading. __

_There is only one more point left to address: the police. The new graduates from M. Javert’s new academy have not yet proven themselves, but that is not the problem. The problem is how slowly the changes in police policy in Paris have trickled down to the rest of the country, and that is something that must immediately be solved._

_I have entered Toulon prison; I have seen the way inmates are treated there, as if they are less than animals. I have visited Rochefort; I have seen how the inmates are treated better, but they are not even allowed the comforts of their loved ones’ touch. The cruel policies that we all condemned during M. Jean Valjean’s appeal are still in place; the injustices that made our rage strong enough to start a revolution are still occurring. Throughout my travels around the country, I have visited county jails where people are still being arrested for minor theft even though their motivation was poverty._

_Why has nothing been done about them?_

“Because there was Gisquet, and there is still the old guard,” Philippe murmured under his breath.

Mathieu patted him on the shoulder. This was an issue they were fully aware of and were angry about, but even the Président could not do much if the superintendents nodded and smiled in his face and returned to their old policies and ways of thinking the moment his back was turned. There was nothing Philippe could do when he couldn’t find enough people to take over those superintendents’ positions either.

“He offers ideas for this too,” Mathieu said.

_M. Chabouillet has taken over as Préfect of the Police. Though his position gives him the authority over the country’s force, it seems that his power works only in Paris. Perhaps it is because, unlike the previous Préfect Gisquet, the police force elsewhere does not know him. So let them know him. If M. Chabouillet happens to read this post by chance, then let me issue a plea on the behalf of all those who are treated like animals:_

_Go out of Paris. Go to France as a whole. Convince the regional superintendents of the righteousness of your new policies. Force their hand into obeying them. Meet the kind and competent officers, like I have, and raise them to superintendents if the current ones refuse to change_.

“Who the hell can replace Chabouillet?” Philippe blurted. Then he sighed, because he and Mathieu both knew someone who was more than capable of taking over that position temporarily. “Or, rather, who the hell would be _willing_ to replace Chabouillet?”

“We can have Verdier do it,” Mathieu offered, leaning back on his chair. When Philippe blinked at him, he shrugged. “He’s already Secrétaire, after all; it won’t be much of a step-up.”

“For only three years,” Philippe pointed out. “That’s too quick for a promotion, isn’t it?” 

“It won’t be a permanent promotion,” Mathieu said. “Just for a year, two maximum, while Chabouillet goes out there to do what he needs to do.”

Philippe considered the idea, then he shook his head. “That’s not going to work,” he said, shaking his head. He looked at the post again. “Not only isn’t Verdier ready, but Chabouillet’s not going to be Préfect for long – he’s reaching retirement age soon.”

Mathieu raised an eyebrow. “You’re suggesting…”

“We send Verdier out on this tour,” Philippe said. 

“He’s not very good at convincing people,” Mathieu pointed out. “And he doesn’t have the kind of visibility or seniority that Chabouillet does, which means that it’ll be hard for the old guard to listen to what he says.”

“That’s something for Verdier to figure out a solution for, isn’t it?” Philippe pointed out. “He has to earn Préfect _somehow._ ” 

Especially since it was an unspoken assumption that Verdier would be taking over that position once Chabouillet retired. Unless, of course, they found someone better who was willing to take over that position.

“You know, we can send someone else instead,” Mathieu said, voice dry. “He’d take six months before he gets everyone in line.”

Philippe rolled his eyes. “He’s never going to agree,” he said, equally dry. Both of them knew that nothing, absolutely nothing, would pry M. Javert away from M. Jean for as long as a month. Much less for more than that. It simply wasn’t going to happen.

Mathieu chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s a dead end, yeah,” he said.

They fell into silence for a moment, contemplating a possible solution. Or, rather, a possible way to implement this solution that had been handed to them on a silver platter.

“Tell you what,” Mathieu said finally. “How about you suggest this to Chabouillet, and see what he thinks?” When Philippe blinked at him, he shrugged. “We’ll have to get his input anyway, or else he’s going to get insulted that you’re handing him orders like he’s a kid.”

“Yeah,” Philippe said. He tapped his lip. “Though I think that he’ll suggest sending Verdier… and have Delattre go with him.”

Laughing again, Mathieu shoved him on the shoulder. “You’re getting better at predicting people,” he said. 

“Only when it comes to those I know,” Philippe shrugged, not even bothering to deny the compliment. It was part of what allowed him to be good at his job, after all – all of his Cabinet was devoted to creating a better world, but they all had different ideas about how to accomplish that. If he couldn’t predict their arguments, then he couldn’t have compromises planned in advance, and their meetings would be far, far less productive than they were at the moment.

Still: “I couldn’t have predicted _this_ ,” he said, waving a hand at the article. “Who the hell is this guy anyway?”

“Keep reading,” Mathieu said. His lips twitched. “It’ll surprise you, I think.”

_That is all I have to say. Except for one thing: I have offered all of you a year’s worth of photographs and stories, and now an essay on my thoughts on the solutions to the suffering I witnessed. But I have not offered you my name, or my identity. Many of you have asked, but I have left it to the last because I wanted all of my offerings to be kept clean of any associations with my name._

_My name is Tristan Combeferre._

“What,” Philippe said flatly.

“Don’t stop there.”

_My uncle, my father’s youngest brother, died fifteen years ago, during the June Riots. My clearest early memory was listening to him tell me about a new world where people could live not only in peace, but in joy as well. He always had a clear-sighted view of the world he wished to achieve._

_He will never see his vision come to fruition. He will never see my attempts to make it even better. Nevertheless, I shoulder his legacy with pride._

_I am not asking for another revolution. Only change. Only for us to remember that there is still suffering in our world; to remember what we said years ago when we saw such injustice:_

_“No more.”_

_Thank you for reading._

Slowly, Philippe turned around to stare at Mathieu. “Do you think,” he said, every word an effort, “I can convince him to run for Président?”

Mathieu stared blankly at him. Philippe reached out, grabbing his hands again.

“Look, it’s a great idea,” he said, starting to grin. “He has the name and the history for legitimacy. He knows exactly where we can go on from here and _how_ to get there.”

He began to warm up even more to the topic. “He obviously cares enough about the country to try, and he’s putting himself out into the public eye already. Some of them know him. It won’t be much of an effort for them to understand just what he’s capable of. If we start his campaign now, and if I make it clear to the people that I support his election, then—”

 _I won’t have to run_ , he almost said, but Mathieu had shoved his hand right into his face again.

“Stop right there,” his brother said, eyes narrowed and lips pressed flat. “Just… stop right there and _think_ about what you’re saying.”

Philippe leaned back so he could speak. “I _am_ thinking,” he insisted. “It’s actually a great idea!”

“No,” Mathieu said flatly. “Think beyond how much you hate being Président. Think beyond how desperately you want someone to replace you.”

“I’m not desperate for someone to replace me,” Philippe said. He sounded like he was whining even to his own ears.

Mathieu rolled his eyes. “You asked _everyone_ if they were willing to run,” he reminded him. “Chabouillet, Dumas, Marius, Cosette… Hell, you even asked M. Jean and M. Javert. If asking those two doesn’t stink of desperation, I don’t know what _does_.”

Dragging a hand through his hair, Philippe sighed. “Look, I only got elected because I’m the only one who was willing to put himself out there,” he said. “You have way more experience, knowledge, and ideas than I did, but you didn’t want to. Now that I have someone with all of those things, I don’t have to do this anymore.”

“He doesn’t have those things,” Mathieu said flatly. Before Philippe could protest, he reached out and turned Philippe’s gaze back towards the blog post.

“Three solutions,” he said. “He gave us three solutions. The first is more an outline than an actual plan; the main crux of the third needs to be changed entirely; and okay, the second is actually a good plan, but I can bet both of my children’s lives that he has no bloody idea how to actually make it happen.”

“But,” Philippe protested.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Mathieu interrupted before he could continue. “He has a hell of a lot of potential. But he’s nowhere near ready yet, and the election’s in a few months. He’s not going to learn how to deal with the people _within_ the government, much less everything about politics, including foreign policy. He’s not going to be ready for a _long_ time.”

Philippe shoved his hand over Mathieu’s mouth, but he was too late: “You’re going to have to run again,” Mathieu said.

“I don’t _want_ to,” Philippe whined. His head hit the table. “Won’t it be a good thing if I just give up power now? Give it to someone else, and set a good example that way?”

“And leave it to someone who has no idea what he’s doing and thus will make everything we’ve worked so hard for crash and burn?” Mathieu asked. Philippe couldn’t see him – his view was entirely taken up by the metal and glass of his desk – but he knew his brother was raising his eyebrow. 

He just groaned in response. His fingers clawed a little on his desk.

“Tell you what,” Mathieu said after a moment of silence. “How about we meet him, talk to him, and gauge his potential then?”

Philippe lifted his head up, starting to grin. But Mathieu shook his head again.

“If he’s capable – and that’s a pretty damned big _if_ – then we’ll build up his reputation during your second term,” he said. “He’ll have those four years to learn everything he needs to. And _then_ he can run in the elections.”

That was a sensible idea, like most of Mathieu’s. The only problem with it, of course, was that Philippe would need to have another term as Président. He rubbed his temple, then the bridge of his nose.

“Look,” Mathieu continued. “If you have him run now, the only reason people would vote for him is because you said that they should. That’s not going to help with the idea of democracy, you know?”

“Yeah,” Philippe sighed. He flopped back into his chair, shaking his head. “And none of his ideas will ever come to fruition because none of the Cabinet will take him seriously.”

“None of the _people_ will,” Mathieu corrected. He motioned towards the block of floating words again. “How much of an audience does he have, here? Not many, I’d reckon. Not nearly enough for him to have any kind of reputation whatsoever. Besides, even if he has a huge audience, all that he’s done is to take pictures and talk. There’s been no action, so the public _can’t_ trust him. We need to make sure that they can, first.”

Philippe slanted a glance towards his brother. “You seem pretty confident that he’s going to go along with this plan,” he said.

Mathieu shrugged. “He spent a whole year looking for problems in what we’ve been doing and thinking up of solutions to them,” he said dryly. “That’s some passion there.”

“But passion is only the bare minimum,” Philippe finished. When Mathieu nodded, he sighed. “Fine. I’ll run this time. And we’re going to meet him to see if this is the best he can do, or just the least.”

Nodding, Mathieu levelled his gaze on him for a long moment. Then he sighed, standing up and walking around the desk. Perching on the edge of it, he wrapped his arm around Philippe’s shoulders, dragging him in until Philippe could sag against his side.

“There’s so much to _do_ ,” Philippe said quietly. “And I…”

He swallowed. It shouldn’t be difficult for him to admit this, not to Mathieu, but his words were stuck in his throat anyway. He forced them out.

“I’m really tired.”

Mathieu pressed a soft kiss onto the top of his head. “I know,” he said, and his voice was as gentle as the hand stroking Philippe’s back. “I know you don’t want to do this anymore. I know that you don’t want the power. I know it isn’t and has never been about your ego. But that’s the reason why you’re the only person who can do this.”

“Mm,” Philippe said, burying his face into Mathieu’s stomach. “Doesn’t make the job easier to do.”

“Nothing does,” Mathieu soothed.

They just stayed there for a while. Philippe knew that it was probably ridiculous: here he was, the most powerful man in the country, relying on someone else to hold him together. He should be stronger than this, especially since he wasn’t a child any longer.

There were people around him now, people whom he could talk to, people whom he could call his friends. But there was no one who could replace Mathieu. Even though Philippe sometimes felt bad about relying so much on his brother when Mathieu had a family of his own to prioritise, there was no one else he felt so comfortable with.

Those years alone in Fountainebleau had broken something within him, and these years in Bourbon had only widened the cracks. Philippe knew that. But that was another problem he had no solution for, either; hell, he wasn’t even sure how he could stop it from worsening.

Taking a deep breath, he pulled away, lifting his eyes and giving Mathieu a watery smile. “You make it easier,” he said. “The fact that everyone wants the best for the country and has a similar vision about what ‘best’ means also makes it easier.”

“Easier doesn’t mean easy,” Mathieu said. His fingers stroked through Philippe’s hair, and he crooked a lopsided smile at him.

“C’mon,” he said, nudging at Philippe’s shoulder. “Get up for me? Just for a bit.”

Philippe blinked. But he did stand up, and allowed himself to be manoeuvred around until Mathieu was sitting on the chair instead. It was a large enough chair that when Mathieu tugged him back down, he could sit on his brother’s lap, his face buried into Mathieu’s neck while strong arms wrapped around him. Bracketing him, surrounding him. 

Just like they used to when they were kids, when Philippe couldn’t find it within himself to hold onto the mask he wore in front of his father anymore.

Mathieu kissed his temple again, right at the hairline where Philippe swore he had found a couple of white hairs recently. Philippe laughed shakily.

“Don’t let Azelma find us like this,” he said.

“Nah,” Mathieu shook his head, the ends of his hair brushing Philippe’s cheek, soothing in the familiar ticklishness. “She’ll get it, don’t worry.”

Speaking about Azelma, Philippe pulled back. “By the way, how are the plans for the new psychiatric ward going?” 

Mathieu yanked him back down until Philippe’s nose was buried into his shoulder. “It’s fine,” he said. “You know that Lucille and Duval managed to wrangle an agreement with South Africa to let some of our doctors go there for studies, yeah? Lucille’s still in Capetown, but she’s sending back regular reports and Azelma has been drafting the proposal based upon that…”

This was something that Philippe didn’t need to interfere with – Azelma was taking care of everything on that particular front. Philippe didn’t need to come up with possible solutions, didn’t need to think.

He just needed to listen to the familiar cadence of Mathieu’s voice; just needed to concentrate on the rise and fall of his chest as he spoke.

***

They decided to set the meeting with Tristan Combeferre in Philippe’s apartment at the Rue de Babylone; the place he actually lived in instead of the Palais Bourbon like most people in the country believed he did.

“It’s a more intimate setting than in Bourbon,” Philippe said when he suggested the location. “Besides, if we meet him there, we’ll be meeting not as Président and citizen, but two equal men.” 

Mathieu had to concede that point. Still, he arranged for the place to be subtly patrolled by students of the new police academy – not the actual police, though, because that would be overkill and would just send a message of distrust that he honestly didn’t want Tristan to receive.

Philippe was sprawled on his stomach on the couch right now, thumbing through one of his books – by a man named Michel Foucault. Duval was seated cross-legged on the armchair beside him, surrounded by words and frowning; the man really didn’t seem capable of not working even for a moment. 

They had asked Duval along to this meeting because they needed an opinion that was not the same as theirs, and Duval had always played the devil’s advocate in the Cabinet. Besides, when the word of this reached the public – which Mathieu had no doubt it would – the fact that Duval came from a party that opposed theirs and was still included in the decision of finding a successor would give the people more reason to trust their choice.

Given that Combeferre actually wanted the job of successor, of course.

Speaking of the man, here was the knock. Philippe looked up, and made to unfold himself on the couch. “Stay there,” Mathieu said, stopping him before he could. He turned towards Duval. “You too, though…”

Duval turned off the projector, grinning. “No sensitive documents in sight,” he said. “Though, why?”

He wasn’t asking about having to stop working, Mathieu knew. “Might as well have him see what we’re really like,” he said, shrugging. “No point in giving him a false image and have him change his mind later.”

“Good point,” Duval nodded. He waved a hand towards the door. “Go ahead.”

When Mathieu pulled open the door, he blinked. The man standing there still had his hand raised in the midst of a knock, but it wasn’t that which caught Mathieu’s attention.

Combeferre couldn’t be more than twenty-two. If he was that.

Shoving that instinctive reaction to the side, he nodded. “Come on in,” he said. “We’re waiting for you.”

“I’m not late,” Combeferre said, and Mathieu had to give it to him – he resisted both looking at his watch and sounding defensive. Well, mostly resisted, because Mathieu could still see and hear traces of both.

“You’re not,” Mathieu said, smiling wryly. “We’re just early.”

He watched Combeferre carefully as he led him past the entrance hall into the living room, and his smile widened as the kid practically froze up at the sight of Philippe and Duval, both of whom were looking utterly casual. It probably didn’t help that the two of them decided to go with t-shirts and jeans while Combeferre was in a tailored suit, either.

Philippe placed his bookmark between the pages of his book before putting it down. Then he turned to meet the boy’s eyes, cocking his head.

“You’re younger than I thought you’d be,” he said.

“I’m the age that M. Marius Pontmercy was during the barricades,” came the immediate response. “I’m older than Mme. Cosette was when she took part in the revolution.”

The answer sounded rehearsed. Mathieu knew he wasn’t the only one who noticed it either, because Duval threw his head back and laughed.

“Relax, kid,” he said, grinning. “We’re not going to discount what you said just because you look like you’re barely out of diapers.”

Then, before Combeferre could protest, he waved a hand towards the couch opposite him. “Take a seat.”

Combeferre did so stiffly. He watched with wide eyes as Mathieu nudged at Philippe with a hand and took the other side of the couch.

“Isn’t this an interrogation?” he blurted out even before Mathieu could settle into the cushions.

Mathieu raised an eyebrow. “Did you do something that deserves being arrested?”

“I spoke my mind,” Combeferre said, tilting his chin up in clear defiance. It just made him look even younger. Mathieu stifled an instinctive laugh; he didn’t remember being this young, and couldn’t imagine being so open with his emotions. Whether that was a mark for or against the boy remained to be seen.

“So you did,” Philippe said. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees as his hands clasped together. “And that’s a hell of a mind you’ve got there, M. Combeferre.”

The boy twitched, either in surprise at Philippe’s chosen term of address or what he actually said. Likely both, Mathieu decided.

“Oh,” he said.

“We read your post,” Duval said. When Combeferre turned towards him, clearly startled, Duval shrugged.

“Mathieu here found it and showed it to the entire Cabinet,” he said dryly. “We spent an entire meeting talking about how to implement those ideas you gave us.”

Combeferre’s mouth fell open. His Adam’s apple bobbed silently for a few moments. He looked as if he wasn’t quite sure what to address first, so Mathieu took pity on him.

“I read every politically-motivated post on the intranet,” he began.

“Not sure how he finds the time,” Duval chimed in. When Mathieu shot him a warning look, he shrugged and leaned back into his armchair.

“Most of the points raised by those posts are valid,” he continued when he was sure that he wouldn’t be interrupted again. “We try to take those things into account when making policies. But most of the time, the posters simply raise problems without giving possible solutions.”

He raised a hand before Combeferre could speak. “It’s our jobs as the leaders of the country to come up with solutions,” he said. “But there are only so many of us, whether in the Cabinet or outside of it, so our perspectives are limited. There is only so much we can do. I also know that you’re not the only one who offered possible solutions. But you’re the only one so far who offered viable ones.”

Catching Combeferre’s eyes, he held the boy’s gaze. “You’re the only one so far who has taken the time to research the full scope of the situation and offer something that _works_.”

“Though we had to do some tweaking,” Philippe picked up the thread, “the point remains that your ideas are _good_.”

When Combeferre’s wide-eyed gaze turned towards him, Philippe smiled, soft and gentle. “You gave us another perspective, M. Combeferre, and it’s a valuable one.”

“What?” Combeferre croaked out.

Duval laughed again. “These bastards,” he said, waving a negligent hand in the direction of Mathieu and Philippe. “They like to talk in circles instead of getting to the point. Which is that we’re offering you a job.”

“An internship, you might call it,” Philippe added. 

Combeferre’s eyes shifted down the row from Philippe to Mathieu to Duval, then back again. He lingered most on Duval, no doubt due to the casual insult he had just thrown.

Then he took a deep breath, tugging on his ponytail. He removed his glasses and folded them into his pockets.

 _Camera glasses_ , Mathieu immediately recognised. Oh, the boy had certainly come prepared for the worst. He resisted another twitch of his lips.

“That’s quite a lot to take in at once,” he said finally. His voice was steady and even. “What kind of internship?”

“One that is directly under our esteemed Président,” Mathieu said. When Combeferre jerked again, he finally allowed himself to grin. “Four years long, with the very real possibility of a promotion at the end.”

“To what?” Combeferre’s eyes narrowed. 

“You get my job,” Philippe said. When Combeferre gaped at him, he leaned forward even more, eyes wide and bright and completely earnest.

“Yes, I _am_ being completely serious.”

Combeferre swallowed. He tugged at his ponytail again, dragging unsteady fingers through the strands. “What,” he said. His gaze shifted from Philippe to Mathieu and Duval and then back, landing somewhere on the wall on top of Mathieu’s head.

“That’s not… you can’t be serious.”

“We can, and we are,” Mathieu said firmly. “You don’t have to agree, and it’s not a certain thing. You’ll be on probation right up until the elections after the next.” 

“But,” Combeferre said. He shook his head hard, and turned towards Mathieu. “I thought that… that it’d be you, Monsieur,” he said helplessly. His eyes shot towards Duval. “Or even you.”

“No,” Duval said before Mathieu could. “Even if either of us were willing to take up the position, it’s not a wise choice. It has to be someone new. Someone who has no connections whatsoever to the revolution.”

“ _Why?_ ”

“Because we’re trying our best to not set up a regime,” Philippe said. When Combeferre’s eyes turned towards him, he gave him a wry smile. “If Mathieu or Duval here, or Marius or Chabouillet, or anyone who has fought during the revolution takes over after me, we’d be telling people that the only ones who are capable of leading are those who were already in our inner circle before the new government was formed.”

“We’d be letting history repeat itself,” Mathieu finished. “We’d be making the same mistakes as my grandfather did.”

Combeferre stared down at his hands. “You’d just be perpetuating the same ideas without changing them according to the times,” he said. His voice, though quiet, was devoid of any nervousness or uncertainty.

Mathieu’s eyes widened. He had harboured his own doubts about letting this boy be Philippe’s successor – no matter how good his ideas were, it was a different story when it came to implementing them – but for Combeferre to have caught on so quickly…

When he smiled, it was without teeth. “Exactly,” he said.

“We know that we’re asking a great deal from you,” Philippe said. “You’ll not only be spending four years of your life living and breathing the details of governance, but you’ll be doing it in the public’s eye. Every move you make will be scrutinised. You’ll be criticised for everything.”

“You will basically be living _our_ lives right now,” Duval added dryly. When Combeferre looked at him, he sighed.

“What he’s trying to say,” jerking a thumb towards Philippe, “is that you don’t have to make a decision right now.”

“Can I?” Combeferre asked immediately. He took a deep breath, his hands clasping together on his lap. “Can I make a decision right now?”

The three older men in the room exchanged a glance. Mathieu shrugged, and he saw Duval do the same – the decision was up to Philippe.

“Go ahead,” Philippe said. His eyes had dimmed slightly – Mathieu knew exactly the answer he expected from Combeferre. He knew, too, that Philippe was wrong. He could see it in the boy’s eyes.

“Yes,” Combeferre said. When Philippe jerked backwards, gaping, he smiled, small and almost smug. 

“My answer is yes.”

Because Philippe clearly couldn’t manage to unscramble his mind soon enough and Duval seemed to be in the same state, Mathieu asked: “Are you sure?”

Combeferre’s eyes shifted towards him. “I am, Monsieur,” he inclined his head. When Mathieu didn’t speak, he hesitated for a moment before continuing, “When I planned this project, it was meant to be the first of many. But the goal of each of them has always been the same: to catch your attention.”

He scanned the three older men sitting across him. “Your attentions, Messieurs.” 

“Why?” Mathieu asked softly. “Is it because of your uncle?”

“No,” Combeferre said, and the answer was so swift and decisive that Mathieu couldn’t doubt him even though he knew he should. “My uncle was only the starting point. His words and deeds allowed me to understand that it is simply _unfair_ that I live a life of comfort when so many others do not have that privilege even though they are as human as I am.”

Taking a deep breath, he stared down at his hand as he tugged on his ponytail. “I was merely a child during M. Pontmercy’s trial, Messieurs, but I will never forget what it felt like to realise, for the first time, that it is possible to change the unfairness of the world. When the revolution happened, I was still a child, too young to participate in any real way. But I watched every moment, and I _hoped…_ ”

He faltered. 

“Have we disappointed you?” Philippe asked.

Combeferre closed his eyes. When he opened them again, they were so bright and sharp that Mathieu could practically see the fire burning within his being.

“Yes,” he said. Before Philippe could apologise – Mathieu knew he was going to without looking at him – Combeferre continued. “But I am grateful, too, for the disappointment I felt, because it gave me my purpose.

“No,” he shook his head. “It gave me my duty.”

“Duty?” Duval practically pounced on the word. When Mathieu looked at him, the other man’s gaze was narrowed and fully focused on Combeferre.

“Yes,” Combeferre said. “My disappointment made me realise that there is much to be done. And that I – with my family’s wealth and the education I gained as a result of it – have a duty to ensure all those things _are_ accomplished.”

He met their eyes, one by one. “It is my duty to alleviate the suffering I see. And now… now you have handed me a way to fulfil it.”

Silence fell over them for long moments. Combeferre didn’t avert his eyes.

“Well,” Duval said finally. He gave the boy a smile that was almost a smirk, lopsided and baring his canines. “There go all of my doubts.”

“Eh?” Combeferre blinked.

Duval spread out his hands. “The hallmark of a good leader is usually how much they do not want power,” he said. “You’re practically leaping for it right now, but you have a good reason for it.”

When Philippe turned towards him, he chuckled. “No objections,” he said. “Not for this one.”

“Mathieu?” Philippe asked.

“I can see the passion in your eyes,” Mathieu said, ignoring his brother and focusing on Combeferre. “I can see that you mean what you say. All I ask right now is this: can you sustainit?”

Combeferre started. He cocked his head to the side. “I don’t understand what you mean, Monsieur.”

“Passion comes easily when you’re young and starting out on your chosen path,” Mathieu said. “But you will meet with obstacles. You will meet people who will never agree with you, no matter how much you try. There will be people who will disagree with your ideas just because it is you who said them. There will be those who have vastly different priorities than you do, and who are unwilling to compromise unless you offer them a pound of flesh.”

He took a deep breath. “You will realise that, no matter how much you do, there will be problems left unsolved. Your work will never be done, your duty will never be fulfilled in its entirety.” When he smiled, it was with teeth.

“Can you deal with all of that, and continue fighting?”

“I…” Combeferre hesitated. After a moment, he shook his head. “I cannot answer that question right now, Monsieur.”

“Why?”

“Because I have not experienced any of it,” he said. “I have not seen any of it. If I answer that I will be able to handle all of those things right now, I will only be making a false promise.”

Mathieu leaned back into the couch. “That was a good answer.” It was one that showed that Combeferre not only had intelligence, but wisdom as well; the fire within him did not blind him to reality.

His gaze turned from Combeferre to Philippe, and nodded. “I have no objections.”

Philippe stood. He walked around the table towards Combeferre, and held out a hand. “I’d like to officially welcome you to the government,” he said, irony thick in his voice.

Standing up, Combeferre shook Philippe’s hand firmly. “Thank you, Monsieur,” he said. He looked a little dazed saying it.

“Oh,” Philippe said. “One more thing?”

“What is it?” 

“If you end up succeeding me, eventually you’re going to have to try to find people like them,” Philippe said, jerking his thumb towards Mathieu and Duval both. “People smarter and better than you are. And you’ll have to win their loyalty.”

His hands clapped on top of Combeferre’s shoulders, and his grin was nearly manic.

“I’m really lucky that I barely had to make any effort to do that, so…” He squeezed. “Good luck, kid.”

Combeferre blinked. His eyes travelled from Philippe towards Mathieu and Duval. “Is he always like this?” 

For the first time throughout the whole meeting, a plaintive note had entered his voice.

Mathieu couldn’t help it: he threw his head back and laughed. “Oh, most of the time, he’s worse,” he said, grinning.

“Oh shit,” Combeferre said. He immediately pressed his hand against his mouth, eyes wide.

Duval was still cackling as he approached, swinging an arm around Combeferre’s shoulders and pulling him close. 

“Don’t change your mind, kid,” he said. “You’re stuck now.”

“I…” Combeferre stared at him, looking impossibly young with his eyes so wide and his head shoved under Duval’s arm. “I guess I have a lot to learn.”

 _And not only about the methods of governance_ , Mathieu finished for him. He exchanged a glance with Philippe, bumping their shoulders together before chuckling again.

“Yes,” he said, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Yes, you do.”

Combeferre bit his lip. “I look forward to it,” he said. 

The kid really was sweet: he actually sounded _sincere_ about that. But then again, Mathieu thought, watching as Philippe ruffled Combeferre’s hair and mussed up his ponytail entirely.

He might just be justified.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Combeferre is my favourite barricade boy (he’s the _only one_ of them who thought beyond the barricades!), and so he gets my favourite OC. Also, I know that I said in the Epilogue Two of _all sinners crawl_ that Mathieu found Tristan distributing brochures, but a social media post makes so much more _sense_ in this futuristic AU. I’ve changed that already.
> 
> Also, there are _Hamilton_ references in this chapter. I didn’t do it deliberately. The musical has invaded my life and my mind, oops. I am actually sorry about this.


	16. Fifteen, 2150

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The cuckoo finds the courage to return to the nest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> **Book II Chapter Sixteen: Fifteen, 2150**  
> 
> 
> **Warnings:** The author tries her best to do justice to Roma culture, most likely fails, and therefore shifts the focus towards something else. Also, entirely Javert-centric, though that's less of a warning than an advertisement.

From some of the books that Valjean had convinced him to read, Javert had learned that the scent of the oceans had not changed much throughout the centuries. The waters began to rise after humans stopped being able to live without machines, but the scent of it was always described the same way – thick and harsh with salt, cooling and warming both.

But the scent of Toulon's seas had changed for Javert. Perhaps it was because he was inside this self-driving car and the air-conditioning diluted the salt until it turned into a pleasant thing. Still, the explanation didn't seem good enough. It was too small to wrap around the change in the rasping breeze, the way it had gentled as if the seas had decided to be kind on this particular mid-autumn day, kissing instead of biting. 

Valjean would know the reason, Javert thought. Not for the first time since he stepped off the high-speed train that took him to Toulon from Paris, Javert thought about his decision to stop Valjean from coming with him. It was a good idea, he knew, because Toulon carried only foul memories for the man; memories etched into the scars on his wrists and ankles, and the brand on his chest, and Javert's bout of nostalgia was not worth Valjean having to deal with that all over again.

Toulon Prison loomed to his right when he entered the highway. Though it was separated from the mainland by a strip of ocean, it was still tall enough to cast its shadow upon the city. Not as much as it used to, however: there were simply more buildings in Toulon now, high-rise public housing that was Duval and Philippe's combined brainchild – something they took from Russia two hundred years ago and related to that red book that Duval carried practically everywhere – that was helping to reduce the living costs in the city and thus stem the flood of people heading to Paris.

These buildings blocked out the sight of the prison as the car exited the highway into the Boulevard Jules Michelet.

The sound of sirens. Javert jerked up on his seat, blinking. He craned his neck backwards, immediately recognising the white paint with its red and blue stripes – the design he’d helped M. Chabouillet decide upon years ago. The number plate of the police car was the same as the one that had passed him five minutes or so ago. 

He pressed the buttons on the dashboard in front of him to pull over and stop. After a moment, he watched as the patrol car do the same.

“Citizen, please exit the vehicle with your hands up.”

Javert blinked. He looked down at the dashboard, swiping on the screen there to check the car's speed a couple of minutes before: the car had been moving far underneath the speed limit, and the streets were empty enough that he wasn't inconveniencing anyone by how slow he was going. There should have been no reason to stop him.

Shrugging to himself, he stepped outside, and held his hands upwards. He forced his lips to remain still, to not smirk, when he heard a quiet curse come from the police car – the officer had obviously forgotten that his microphone was still on. Standing there, back straight and shoulders loose, he waited.

The man who exited the car was dressed in the old police uniform – black from head to toe, with his face covered by the visor. Javert stifled the instinctive urge to tell him to take it off. He did not come here in the capacity of the head of the Police Academy in Paris, he reminded himself. And even if he had, he didn't have much authority in that position anyway.

“Forgive me for the inconvenience, Monsieur,” the man said, his voice distorted and muffled by the visor. “I stopped you because...” He hesitated before he shook his head, taking a step forward. “You're heading towards some place dangerous.”

Javert raised an eyebrow. “I'm heading towards Fort Lamalgue,” he said mildly. “Down the Avenue Guiramand.”

“Yes, Monsieur,” the officer nodded. “The Romani Ghetto.”

“Ah,” Javert said, fighting to keep his voice mild. “Is that what you all call it here? I thought that it's an area of public housing.”

The man snorted, the sound echoing within the depths of his visor. “Our Président is a kind man, blessed be he and his chosen Cabinet,” he said, crossing himself. 

What the hell? Javert deliberately did not raise his other eyebrow at the sight. 

His shock wasn't noticed, however, because the man was continued. “But the Romani should have just been left in their camps. Or thrown into the sea as a whole, saving us all a whole lot of trouble.”

Digging his nails into his palms, Javert forced himself to keep silent. He waited.

“Anyway, Monsieur,” the officer continued. “Are you very determined to head in that direction?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I don't have the authority to stop you, Monsieur,” the officer said. “I'd just like to warn you to be careful of your belongings.” He turned his head, and nodded towards the car. “Especially that one. They're thieves, all of them.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” Javert said.

Still visored, the officer nodded crisply. As Javert watched, he ducked back into his patrol car, and then drove off. Javert uncurled his fingers, shoving them into his pockets. He breathed – one, two, three – as he watched the white-red-blue of the police car disappear into the distance.

Then he got back into the car, nudging it to go far faster than it had before, skirting the speed limit now. He stared out of the windows, eyes unseeing and fists clenching and unclenching in his lap.

Years ago, at the beginning of M. Philippe's first term, Marius had come down to Toulon. According to his reports afterwards, he’d met with Khulai and the other leaders of the Romani camps along the Littoral Fréderic Mistral highway, and planned with M. Philippe to start construction of public housing that was specifically meant for the Romani. They had chosen an abandoned area that was only a short distance from the camps. It had taken only eighteen months for the buildings to be constructed – it had helped that Toulon's primary exports were building materials – and, the last Javert had heard of the project, the Romani population had settled into the area. Their standard of living, according to the periodic reports of the demographics of the city and their monthly income, was improving as well.

For the first time since those years ago, Javert wondered if he should have accepted Marius's repeated invitations to take part in the project. Well, he would know for sure _now_ , and hope that he wasn't far, far too late.

The first thing Javert noticed was the sudden burst of _colour_. Most of the buildings in Toulon were like those in Paris – made of concrete, painted in dull shades of off-white, grey, or blue. The apartment blocks built for the Romani were no different, but the streets were filled with stalls with awnings that overspilled with searingly bright shades. As Javert directed the car to stop at a corner, he noticed that every apartment door was draped with cloth and ribbons in practically every hue, and the sea breeze brought with it the tinkling of tiny bells woven into the strips.

He noticed, too, how the people walking around the streets stopped and stared at his car. Their eyes shifted towards him as he stepped out, and stayed there, staring. Stall-keepers slipped out from behind their counters to approach him, their hands laden with wares.

Javert stood there, his hands shoved into his pockets and his gaze fixed into the indeterminable distance. Groups began to congregate and whisper together, people started to nudge each other. Javert deliberately did not listen even though he knew he could understand every word; though he knew what they were doing. 

When he returned to the Toulon city centre, he was going to find the person who had been writing up those economic reports and grill them on their methods. For this was familiar; this hadn't changed. And it should have.

“Hey, _gadjo_!” One of them called out finally. Javert's eyes turned towards the voice, and found a dark-skinned young girl, no older than fifteen, in ragged jeans and an over-large man's shirt. The girl swaggered towards him. “You looking for something?”

Her French was so thick with an achingly-familiar accent that it had to be deliberate. As Javert turned towards her, the girl drew a hand slowly through her hair, the bells braided into the strands jangling. Her lashes fluttered at him, dark shadows slashing across cheeks still filled with baby-fat. 

“Do the young birds of the nest now prostrate themselves to outsider-demons, offering their feathers to be pecked at even before they have learned how to fly?” he asked evenly.

The girl's eyes widened. Around them, the whispers stopped so suddenly, as if Javert's words had been knives, slitting throats in their wake.

He sighed, opening his mouth. Before he could say another word, however, a voice called out from behind the gathering crowd.

“Find forgiveness in your heart for the young ones,” it said. “They have never met a cuckoo before.”

Leaning an elbow against the top of his car, Javert watched as the crowds parted. The man who came through had long hair streaked with white, carefully braided such that the strands contrasted at every turn. There were deep lines creasing his forehead and the sides of his mouth and eyes, and he walked with a cane.

“Khulai,” he greeted.

The girl turned towards the old man. “Old camp-father,” she said, her voice far more melodious in Romani than in French. “You know this outsider-demon?”

Chuckling, Khulai brushed the back of his wrinkled hand over her smooth cheek. “Look beyond the pale skin and the ghost-eyes, Charani,” he murmured. “This is no demon, but a mere cuckoo.”

Javert rolled his eyes. “Long farewells do not dull ears,” he pointed out. 

“They do not,” Khulai said, finally turning his attention to Javert. “Yet the time you spent with your wings outspread in the skies has made you forget how to fold them once more.”

Dark eyes even sharper than they were that day in the courtroom, more than a decade ago, he took a step towards him.

“Or will you tell me now that the outsider-demons know how to cage not only the chicks, but cuckoos too? Is it that the cement that has made your school has been streaked over your flight-feathers?”

Of course Javert expected this; of course he knew that he would have to answer for his long avoidance of these people who were and were not his at the same time. Yet he had not expected that it would happen right here, in the midst of the square, surrounded by those he did not know. 

“The wide skies are beautiful, but they are not the reason,” he forced words out of his suddenly-sticky throat. “There were no cages or cement. Only...” He hesitated.

Around him, the people in the square waited. But the weight of their combined gazes was far lighter than Khulai's narrowed eyes. Javert stared down at his feet for a moment before he met those piercing brown ones.

“Only shadows, made by my own hands,” he said finally. “Filled with a cacophony of cuckoo-cries.”

Khulai cocked his head to the side. One of his braids slipped from his shoulder to hang, swinging lightly, right above his ribs.

“Does the cuckoo fear the pecks of the chicks so much that he waited until the nest was nearly empty to return?”

“No,” Javert denied immediately. “Only... I had turned my eyes away from the nest for so long that I did not realise that it was emptying.” 

“Old square-father,” the girl – Charani – interrupted, sounding impatient. “Who is this man?”

Turning towards her, Khulai raised an eyebrow. “Have you not been listening, young nestling?” he asked, a smirk curving up his thin lips. “He is our cuckoo.”

“That does not,” she started, looking frustrated. The expression was familiar to Javert, and he took pity on her.

“ _Riezo_ ,” he said. “That's what he meant.”

When her confusion only increased, he shrugged. “Outside of here, I am named Javert.”

Immediately, Charani gaped, her eyes widening and lips parting. Javert stifled the urge to look away, continuing to hold her gaze – he had always known that the knowledge of his name carried far; it was something he could not help, no matter what he did to ensure that as few people as possible could recognise him by face. He would really rather not become another M. Philippe, having to disguise himself just to walk on the streets.

“You...” This time, when she ran her hand through her hair, there was nothing seductive about the motion. 

Before she could say another word, however, Khulai was striding forward. His cane clacked onto the ground, hard, as he gripped Javert's arm, tight as a vise. 

“Come now,” Khulai said. “We must speak. Your eyes must know once more the nest.”

Javert raised an eyebrow, jerking his head towards those still congregated around the two of them. Charani, in particular, was now glaring at him, lips pressed into a line.

“The young ones must wait their turn,” Khulai said. That was not what Javert meant, but Khulai was nudging him towards the door of the car. 

Though he wasn't sure what it was that Khulai wanted, he _was_ here to speak to the man; he put aside his doubts for a moment. He shrugged towards the gathering and opened the car doors, helping Khulai inside.

“Have the shadows stolen away your memories of the camps?” the older man asked once Javert started up the car.

“No,” Javert said softly. “They have not.”

Khulai watched him for a moment before he nodded. “Then take us back to the camps,” he said. “There is someone who has awaited your visit far longer than I have.”

Javert swallowed. He had an inkling about Khulai's intentions now. 

Twenty minutes later, they arrived at an abandoned strip of land. Toulon prison loomed again, but Javert barely spared it a glance, his eyes fixed right ahead as he followed Khulai's softly-whispered directions. They went past the area that used to be the main living quarters of the camps, far past the back. Right outside the small forest that Javert had used to play in during his childhood, they left the car behind and walked. Khulai's feet were perfectly steady despite the rocky forest path and the abundance of roots.

They stood in a small clearing. The trees were shorter here, and the sunlight peeked through to illuminate the small wooden stakes that were driven into the ground.

The camps' graveyard.

Khulai led him through the neat columns and rows of stakes until they reached the very back of the clearing, nearly in shadows. There, Khulai stopped, his gaze turning to fix upon Javert's face. But Javert wasn't looking at him, instead staring at the stakes in front of him.

Stakes, because there had never been enough spaces for each person to have their own spot. Javert remembered asking once why there were so many stakes gathered in one place, and why their heights were so different. He remembered the explanation: that the first person to get a new spot always had their grave dug as deep as the strongest men of the camp could manage, and their names engraved upon the shortest stake. Every other person who had to use the same spot would be buried a foot above, and their name carved upon a slightly taller one.

Falling to his knees, Javert ran his fingers over the longest stake. It was rough-hewn, splinters threatening to break his skin. The fading paint made a half-hearted attempt to glimmer under the dim sunlight that managed to reach this place through the canopy above. 

_Zujenia_ , it said. 

Beside him, Khulai knelt as well, slow and laborious. He dropped his cane beside him before he closed his fingers around a fistful of dirt, raising it an inch above before allowing it to slip back to the ground.

“Fire-sister,” he said. “Your son has returned to the nest after long years.”

“Mother,” Javert greeted. His fingers ran over the short epitaph written beneath her name.

 _Her blood was the fire_.

He closed his eyes, swallowing to try to unstick his throat. “Was it your hands that...” he faltered, unable to continue.

Khulai shook his head. “None of the other chicks would have touched her in death,” he said, sliding his eyes towards Javert again. “Her blood was the camp's fire, but her skin was touched too much by the outside-demons.”

Guilt twisted deep in Javert's chest. He laid his hands flat on the forest floor, feeling the wet soil creeping through his fingers. He wanted to do as Khulai had, to call to his mother's spirit even in this small way, but he knew he could not. He had no right to.

“How... how did she die?” he asked. Though he didn't want to know beyond what he was told so long ago, he knew he had to.

Sighing, Khulai shifted, sitting down on the forest floor and leaning back with his hands behind him. He tipped his head back, staring up towards the skies.

“Have the shadows swallowed the memories of the camp-fire in your heart?” he asked.

Javert closed his eyes. He searched his mind, and barely managed to remember: a pair of arms around his body, skin paler than those around them, but her voice melded with everyone else's in laughter. Callused fingertips around his wrists, bright orange searing into the back of his eyelids. His mother guiding him to warm himself up by the fire with everyone else, murmuring in his ears to beware of his feathers catching aflame.

“Not yet,” he said.

“Good,” Khulai said. After a moment, he sighed, continuing, “Zujenia was no cuckoo, but a bird like the rest of us. But she was left out in the cold for too long, the fire in her blood dimmed too much. When she returned...”

He shook his head, sending the ends of his braids flying over his shoulders, the stark black-and-white contrasting sharply with the rich brown of his skin. 

“She was burnt by it in the end.”

Javert could almost see it: his mother dragging herself back to the camps, half-faded from all the time she’d spent in jail. Falling ill, consumed by fever, burning from the inside out because the warmth she was surrounded with was suddenly too much for her. His hand reached for his silver chain instinctively, but he jerked it to drag through the strands of his hair instead – he did not deserve that comfort. Not for this.

“I...” he stared down at his hands. “I ran towards the shadows, and allowed them to consume my memories of her.”

Khulai's gaze rested on him, a physical weight that nearly squeezed out the air from his chest. He did not say a word; he did not have to. Javert knew what he had once done; knew what he had done once again.

After a moment, he licked his lips. “But,” he said quietly. “No other chicks will be burned the same way now, will they?”

The officer's words lingered in his mind like a searingly-hot brand pressed against his skin: _the Romani Ghetto_. When Marius had told him of his plans to re-house Javert's almost-people, he had been so full of hope. The reports said that all had gone according to plan so far. And yet.

Yet.

Khulai smiled, a soft, cold thing. He shook one hand clean of dirt before winding his fingers through one particular braid. “The nestlings will not know such a thing,” he said finally. “For they do not know the fire.”

Javert blinked. “What?”

Craning his neck, Khulai looked behind them. Javert followed his gaze: past the graveyard, past the forest, into the clearing that had once been home.

“Once we lived close to the ground, with dirt beneath our feet and our eyes turned towards the seas,” Khulai said, his voice soft and wistful. “The hawk came and bore the nest up towards the skies. The winds are kinder there, and air sweeter, but there is no ground there to build a fire.”

He chuckled, a hoarse, raspy sound. “And now our nestlings live while looking upwards at the wide, blue skies.”

“Oh,” Javert said, dumbly. Distantly, he wondered if Marius knew the title Khulai used for him, much less the honour inherent within it. 

“Do not blame them,” the old man said softly. He turned, and when his eyes meet Javert's, the sorrow carved in the lines at the edges were dark and deep. “We named ourselves birds for we were meant to fly. They are now; they could now be, given a chance. Yet...”

Javert swallowed. “Are there new tongues that could tell the old stories?” he asked.

“Few,” Khulai shook his head. “Fewer yet when the nest grew smaller and smaller each year.”

Eyes widening, Javert gaped. That was... It didn't make sense. They had housing, they had a place to live where they did not need to fear being chased out because it was _theirs_ , meant for them. 

“Why?” he choked out.

Khulai looked at him for a long moment. Then he chuckled, reaching out to pat Javert's hand lightly. “Long farewells have indeed dulled the cuckoo's hearing,” he said, amused threading through every word. “Did you not know? The price of the outsider-demons' water to quench the fires within our women is their eggs.”

Javert's stared. Pieces of a long-forgotten puzzle clicked into place in his head: the reason why his almost-people had never liked hospitals. Shakily, he turned back to the grave in front of him – his mother died, consumed by illness, because the price of going to a hospital for healing was forced sterilisation. He whirled around, looking at the graves. 

How many here had died of illnesses that could be cured, but were not because they would rather not pay the price?

His breath had stopped in his throat. He could not breathe through the weight that suddenly crashed down upon him. There must be justice in the world, he knew. He had fought so long to bring about justice. Yet... yet here was an injustice that was still left untouched, and he- he, in his selfishness, had kept himself from looking at it. He had ignored it because...

Because he was a coward.

“Cuckoo,” Khulai called. His voice sounded so far away. Javert felt as if he was drowning- no, as if he was suddenly buried, the soil parting to enclose him within, the forest folding inwards to cover him entirely. Javert's lungs seized, and he bent over, forehead pressing against dirt.

“I didn't know,” he gasped out. “I didn't... I should have...”

“Hush,” Khulai said. His hands gripped tightly onto Javert's shoulders, dragging him upwards. “Hush, cuckoo. Hush.”

Soil gathered underneath Javert's nails as his hands clawed at the forest floor. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to calm himself. But he couldn't: how long had it been since he swore to himself he had claimed to fight for justice? He should have known. He should have stopped this.

Before he could stop himself – he didn't deserve it, he knew he didn't – Javert's hand was grabbing onto the silver chain on his neck. He twisted hard, knuckles digging into his windpipe, cutting off his breathing entirely. Stars burst behind his eyes, but he refused to let go, to give into the instinct. Only when his lungs had nearly given up on air did he finally unclench his fingers. Dirt fell down the inside of his shirt, and he gasped, the sound reverberating around the clearing, as he fell against Khulai.

Strong hands caught him. One stroked over Javert's back, over the side of his face. Javert shuddered, trying to shake his head. He did not deserve this kindness.

“What can I do,” he said, finally managing to unscramble the mass of words in his head. He lifted his head, eyes wild as he looked into Khulai's face. “Tell me what I can do to stop this.”

Khulai blinked. Then he chuckled, shaking his head. His knuckles stroked over Javert's cheek, the touch brief yet soothing. “The outsider-demons no longer ask for that price,” Khulai told him. “The hawk's screams have convinced them otherwise.”

“Oh,” Javert said. He licked his lips. “I... Oh.” 

So there was nothing he could do. Nothing left for him to do. Marius had already addressed this injustice. When had he done that? When had he learned about it? When had he brought it up to Azelma and M. Philippe so that they could enact the laws to, if not undo the horror, then to ensure that it no longer happened?

No, he had no right to ask such things. He had blinded himself; he had refused to see. He had no right to feel resentful of Marius for addressing this either. He should thank the man instead. He must.

His hands were still shaking.

After a moment, Khulai smiled at him. There was no bitter edge now, only sorrow that brightened his eyes, turning them infinitely kind. “Cuckoo,” Khulai said, and his voice was unbearably gentle. 

“Your feathers were badly torn, were they not?”

“Those wounds do not matter,” Javert said immediately, shaking his head. “If they do, then... then let my blood feed the fire, so that it can once again rekindle.”

Khulai looked at him. After a moment he sighed, letting go of Javert to pick up his cane, thumb running over the handle.

“The nestlings can see the skies,” he said quietly. “If we must extinguish our fire so the smoke will not weigh down their wings as they take flight, then it is surely a low price to pay.”

“No,” Javert began. But Khulai was shaking his head again.

“You have seen our square, cuckoo,” he said quietly. “Our nest is made of concrete now; it will not fly apart at the smallest wisp of wind.”

Javert clenched his hands tight, pressing his knuckles against his knees. He concentrated, bringing up the memories of the square: the figurines and toys in the stall-owners' hands; the garishly-coloured cloth draped over every inch that could be reached; the young girl, barely-grown and yet knowing the precise shape of a seductive mouth.

“Is that worth turning the fire, the stories, and the gods into trinkets?” he asked, keeping his voice even and low. “Even though you still have outsider-demons lingering at your doors, threatening to clip the wings of the nestlings at every opportunity?”

Khulai's eyes snapped upwards to him. “From which wind did you hear that?” he demanded.

“No winds, but from the mouth of a demon himself,” Javert said, mouth twisting into a frown. When Khulai's eyes narrowed, he shrugged. “It is not merely nestlings who cannot recognise a cuckoo.”

Sighing, Khulai looked away. “Your tongue might still speak the language of trueborn chicks, your ears might recognise our stories and your nose the scent of our fires, but your eyes...” he smiled, crooked and lopsided. 

“But your eyes do not see the colours of the world as ours do.”

 _Resignation_ , Javert recognised now. It was etched in every inch of Khulai's body, from his hunched-in shoulders to his fingers half-curled around his cane. He let out a breath, staving off the tidal wave of guilt that threatened to bury him again. __

 __“So make me see them,” he challenged. __

 __Khulai didn't speak for long moments, his head tilted back to stare into the canopy above. Then, as Javert watched, he reached out a hand towards the slice of sunlight that peeped through the heavy leaves. __

 __“Look,” he whispered. “Turn your eyes and see.” __

 __The shadow of his fingers slashed over the wooden stakes, the graves. __

 __“You speak of shadows as your fears, cuckoo,” Khulai continued in the same soft voice. “Perhaps that is true for cuckoos, but for the trueborn chicks, we know shadows to be far heavier, far more real. They do not swallow; they cage.” __

 __“Chains,” Javert said. __

 __“Yes,” Khulai nodded. “For the ages of many camp-fathers and camp-mothers our nest have lived under the shadow of the prison, awaiting. Do not forget, cuckoo: we are birds, and our nest is made of twigs and leaves. Such a weight will destroy everything. It will destroy us all.” __

 __Javert swallowed. He nodded. __

 __“Now we have stone for our nest,” Khulai said. “Now our nest has risen out of the shadow into the light. The shadow does not hover above us; it must chase after us. The chains it drags behind are louder than our bells, and we know how to listen to it. Its weight no longer tars our wings; now we can fly.” __

 __Dark eyes turned to Javert. Khulai smiled crookedly again. “If we must give up the sweet scent of the camp-fire to take to the skies, it is a small price to pay.” __

 __“No,” Javert said immediately. Reaching out, he grabbed Khulai's outstretched hand, bringing it down. “I...” __

 __Taking a deep breath, he looked into those dark eyes. “If you are birds, Khulai, then your wings are yours. The shadows that weigh down those wings are...” He hesitated; there was no direct equivalent of _unjust_ in Romani. He shook his head. “The stone that cast the shadows can be moved. They can be destroyed. They must be.” __

 __“By whom?” Khulai asked, skepticism clear in his voice. But he did not pull away from Javert's grip. __

 __“The cuckoo will do so, if you will let him,” Javert said quietly. Only after the words escaped him did he realised that he meant them; that they did not come from his guilt, but somewhere far deeper – the place that had not changed throughout these years, once Valjean had made him see that it existed. __

 __Khulai cocked his head to the side, blinking. “But why would the cuckoo do such a thing,” he said slowly, “when he had refused to even look at the nest for so long?” __

 __Javert couldn't stifle the flinch in time. Still, he refused to look away – he did deserve that. “Without the nest, the cuckoo would have died long ago,” he said. “The nest gave the cuckoo food, and recognised his wings, even though trueborn chicks died for his sake.” __

 __He took a deep breath. “It is long past time that I repay that debt.” __

 __When Khulai's eyes did not lose any of their skepticism, Javert turned away. He reached out, stroking his free hand over his mother's epitaph. “And hers.” __

 __“Paths taken by wings weighed down by debts are rarely true ones,” Khulai said. His voice wavered. __

 __Glancing at the older man out of the corner of his eyes, Javert smiled. “You forget: I am a cuckoo,” he said. “My body is larger, my wings stronger. Such a weight will not cause me to swerve.” __

 __Staring at him for long, nigh-unbearable moments, Khulai finally laughed. “It seems that the cuckoo not only remembers the language of the trueborn chicks, but how to twist it for his sake as well.” __

 __Javert shrugged slightly. His fingers trailed over his mother's name, right where the dulling paint caught the sunlight. “None ever forgets the warmth of the fire,” he said. “No matter how long they flew out towards the cold skies.” __

 __“Were your wings your own, then?” Khulai asked. When Javert blinked at him, he squeezed his hand lightly. “Age has not dulled my ears, cuckoo. I have heard of tales of your wounds, and your chains.” His lips quirked up into a wry smile. __

 __“I have seen the blood staining your wings with my own eyes.” __

 __Ducking his head down, Javert bit his lip. It never made sense to him, the swiftness with which people were willing to forgive him the wrongs that he had done. __

 __“My wings were mine,” he said finally. “The blood I have shed was not caused by the weight of shadows, but the cold frost that bit through my feathers when I flew into the snowstorm of my own accord.” __

 __Khulai chuckled. “Yet you did not cause the snowstorm yourself,” he pointed out. __

 __Javert couldn't deny that, no matter how much he wanted to. “Perhaps,” he conceded. __

 __Once more he caught himself in a trap of his own making, and he couldn't help but laugh – shaky, half-bitter, but laughter, nonetheless. __

 __He never thought that he would ever learn to laugh in this place again. __

 __“If so, then...” Khulai smiled again. It was brighter this time, the sides of his eyes curving upwards, darkness shifting into the light. “If the cuckoo brings the fire back to the trueborn chicks, then perhaps he shall learn to be healed by its warmth as well.” __

 __Javert's mouth grew dry. He bit hard on the inside of his cheek. His hand squeezed Khulai's again before he brought it up, pressing the knobbly knuckles over his forehead. __

 __“The cuckoo will not forget those words,” he said, his voice shaking just a little. Taking a deep breath, he continued: __

 __“Camp-father.” __

 __“The nestlings now call me 'square-father',” Khulai said. His voice was not steady either. __

 __Lowering his head, Javert closed his eyes. “Squares hold no fire,” he said, keeping his voice soft. “Only camps do.” __

 __Khulai's hand pressed against his chin. Javert looked up, opening his eyes to meet those dark, intense ones. __

 __“When I first saw you, I said that you had returned to the nest,” Khulai said. “But now I say: you have not, for the nest you have returned to is a broken one. Crush the stones that cast shadow over us, and bring them to us to build our nest. Then you will have returned home.” __

 __Javert's breath hitched. Once the thought of returning home was abhorrent to him, as despicable as crawling back into the filth-filled gutters. But now... __

 __He would have to speak to the rest of his almost-people; he would have to learn their stories, their thoughts. He would learn. Then he would head down to the police headquarters here in Toulon, and perhaps even make a few calls to Chabouillet and Verdier. The latter especially owed him more favours than he could count anyway. __

 __His eyes left Khulai, looking past him, past the forest, to Toulon Prison. Perhaps he should pay a visit there as well. It would be far ahead of Verdier and Delattre's planned visit to the place, but Javert reckoned that neither of them would mind. __

 __It was long past time that he used the power he had over the police; the power he had held for so long. Nothing would ever convince him that he deserved it, but perhaps that didn't matter. Not when there was injustice for him to address. Not when there was justice he needed to fight for. __

 __If there was anything that Javert had learned about himself after all of these years, it was that his own qualms mattered very little in comparison to the needs of others. __

 __So he nodded, meeting Khulai's eyes, letting him see the determination in them; the fire that burned within him, ignited by the older man's words. __

 __“If that is what I have to do, then I will,” he said. __

 __Khulai's lips curved into a smile. He nodded, and took his cane. Before he could stand, however, Javert got to his feet first. Taking both of Khulai's hands, he hoisted him upwards. __

 __As they walked towards the car, Khulai turned towards him. He chuckled softly, and said, “Speak to the phoenix, cuckoo. Her wings are the widest among the nestlings. She will show you even more colours than I have.” __

 __When Javert stared at him blankly, Khulai laughed again. “The girl,” he said. “The young nestling who took you for a mark.” __

 __“Oh,” Javert said. His lips twitched; unbidden, his fingers tugged on the silver chain around his neck. __

 __Ignoring Khulai's curious glance – what he had with Valjean was still something he preferred to keep close to his chest – he put his hand alongside the car's side door, letting it scan his fingerprints so that it would open. __

 __“Let's go back,” he said. __

 __“Home,” Khulai corrected. When Javert blinked, he rested his hand on top of his, dark eyes boring into his. “One day, cuckoo, the nest will become your home once more.” __

 __Javert gave him a lopsided smile. __

 __“Only after I have brought down the shadow,” he said, and started the car. __

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was like pulling teeth to write mostly because I dug my own grave with regards to their language. Please, please tell me if it's too obtuse for you. I tried to make it as clear as I can – Javert's POV helped a lot with that.
> 
> I tried my best to be as vague as possible with my depiction of Romani culture. Disclaimer: I really, _really_ couldn't find very much. Every single thing here is made-up. I do not claim at _all_ to be an expert. All I can say in my defence is that this is a futuristic AU, and if there are discrepancies, it's because this happens in the future and things have changed since then. If I have gotten anything horrifically wrong, or have offended anyone, _please_ tell me immediately. I'll rewrite the entire chapter if I have to. ** __**
> 
>  ** __**One last thing: forced sterilisation of Romani women is[actually happening today](https://romediafoundation.wordpress.com/2013/02/07/forced-sterilization-of-romani-women-a-persisting-human-rights-violation/). I can't make up something so atrocious.


	17. Sixteen, 2151

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas at Valjean's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Book II Chapter Seventeen: Sixteen, 2151**
> 
> **Warnings:** Some more attempts at doing justice to marginalised situation of the Roma. Also, people dealing badly with grief. Mentions of suicide. The summary is misleading. Focuses almost entirely on OCs.

“It’s beautiful.”

Valjean turned away from where he was frosting gingerbread cookies for the children. His eyes landed on the young girl, not much older than those children. She was leaning one hip against the kitchen counter, arms crossed and eyes fixed on a spot outside of the window.

“What is?” he asked softly.

“The snow,” Charani said. She tucked a strand of hair that had escaped from her thick braid behind her ear. Her eyes met his as she gave him a soft, quiet smile. “I’ve never known it could be so beautiful.”

Though he suspected that he knew perfectly well what she was talking about, Valjean said. “Surely it has snowed in Toulon before.”

“Not the same,” she said. Ducking her head, she let out a small, dry chuckle. “It is very hard to appreciate how pretty snow is when you’re standing out there in the cold.”

When Valjean nodded, her smile widened just so slightly before falling back into silence, staring out of the window. 

Since she had come to live with them a few days ago at Valjean’s own insistence, Charani had barely spoken. She spent most of her time simply watching – him and Javert, any of the other guests who came to the house on Rue Plumet – and listening with her arms crossed and brows furrowed, as if she was trying to unravel some sort of mystery that she saw in front of her. Though there were many questions on Valjean’s tongue – on her life before she was chosen to come here as spokesperson for her people, on her people themselves – and though he had invited her here partly for the chance to ask them, he was simply waiting.

If she wished to reveal anything, then he would listen. The last thing he wanted was for her to believe that the price for her stay in his house was the revelations of her secrets.

“There’s something I don’t understand,” Charani said.

Valjean put on the last finishing touches to the frosting of the cookies. He looked up, wiping his hands clean off flour taking the tray and setting them to a corner of the table.

“No one remembers seeing you when you were still in the,” she hesitated for a moment, the furrows between her brows deepening as she looked for the word, “the prison. But I know you were there. And now you’re _here_.”

She waved a hand towards the kitchens.

“In this house?” Valjean asked.

“Not just the house,” she shook her head. “I have a house of my own, back in Toulon.” Valjean noted the pride in his voice at that statement, and nodded.

“ _Here_ ,” she repeated, waving her hand around herself. “With people who rule this country coming to your house for Christmas. You are… part of their family.” She frowned even more. “They listen to you even though you were in prison.”

_Ah_. Valjean understood the source of her confusion immediately.

He walked over to the sink, turning it on and washing his hands and the equipment he had been using. He watched as her knuckles turned white from how hard she was gripping onto her upper arms from impatience, stifling a smile – no matter how clever she was, no matter how much age and sorrow lingered at the corners of her eyes, Charani was still a child in some ways.

It was reassuring.

“I was in prison,” he nodded. Beckoning her closer, he poured water over the corded scars on his wrists that had not faded all of these years – the visceral proof of his claim. “But the people you see as ruling this country… They don’t see people as labels. Only as people.”

She considered this for a moment, and then shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

Smiling out of the corner of his mouth, Valjean turned up his hands, holding them out towards her with the scars exposed. “When they look at me, they don’t see these,” he said. “Or this,” he tapped his chest, right above where the brand was. “They look into my eyes and see what is there instead.”

Then, before she could speak, he reached a hand out. He brushed the air above her shoulder, indicating the full-sleeved, burgundy dress she was wearing; something that he had guessed to be part of a Roma’s traditional clothes.

“They won’t look at that either.”

Immediately, she snorted. This time, she shook her head hard enough to pull more strands of hair out of her loosely-tied braid. “That’s not possible,” she said. “People don’t look at other people like that.”

“Usually, they don’t,” Valjean conceded. He stifled the ache in his heart at the scepticism in her eyes. “But it’s not impossible for them to do so. It simply takes more effort, and…” He hesitated.

“Most people don’t make the effort?” she finished for him.

He nodded. “Most of the time, they don’t,” he said. “But then again… Most of the time when they don’t, it’s not because they’re deliberately ignoring what they see. It’s simply that they don’t know what to look for.”

She snorted. “If you all keep saying that people deserve to be looked as people, then I shouldn’t have to fight for people to recognise me as one,” she pointed out.

Walking past Valjean, she headed for the cooling cookies on the counter, grabbing one and biting into it viciously. The frosting, still not yet set, smeared pink and blue all over her mouth. 

“I shouldn’t need to be here at all,” she continued. “So what you said is wrong.”

Valjean blinked. That was something he hadn’t considered; something he had never seen as a contradiction. Yet it made sense, didn’t it? If what they had been saying in the past sixteen years was true – that every individual’s circumstances deserved their own, separate considerations, and that every person was capable of such a feat – then her community’s struggles for those very same years shouldn’t have happened.

Yet they had.

After a moment, he spread out his hands helplessly. “Not wrong,” he said softly. “But I don’t know how to convince you otherwise.”

“Hah,” she said. She licked the top of the cookie, cleaning the frosting off with her tongue. “Thought you’d know.”

He opened his mouth, but no words came out. Valjean stared down at his hands, at his tanned skin and white scars. His gaze shifted back to her – her dress, the ribbons and bells braided into her hair – and didn’t understand why his marks didn’t obscure him while hers did obscure her.

“What Valjean is too nice to say, or even think, is that people are stupid fucks.”

Javert stood there at the doorway of the kitchen, arms crossed loosely over his torso and leaning a shoulder against the doorway. He gave Valjean a crooked smile for a brief moment before he turned his attention back to Charani.

“People are blind,” he continued, meeting her narrowed, dark gaze full on. “They don’t realise what they’re doing is wrong until they’re told so explicitly.”

Charani’s eyes darted towards Valjean before she looked at Javert again. She snorted, taking a smaller bite of the cookie. “It shouldn’t be my job to tell them that, _chuuhureizo_ ,” she said.

“How many times have I told you to call me Javert while you’re outside of the camp?” Javert rolled his eyes. “Or outside the square. Whichever you call it.”

“But _chuuhureizo_ is your name,” she pointed out.

“Not really,” Javert sighed. “It hasn’t been my name for a very long time.”

“It’s what people in the camp call you,” Charani continued, stubbornly. “So it’s your name.”

“No,” Javert shook his head. “It’s the name that you know me by. Everyone else knows me as Javert.”

Then he smiled, sharp at the edges. “See, you do the same thing as everyone else.”

Charani paused in the middle of opening her mouth. She blinked, and then took the last bite of her cookie. “I don’t know what you mean,” she said, sounding genuinely confused.

“People can’t see everything of someone else, especially not at first glance,” Javert said, shrugging. “It’s too complicated. It’s much easier to shove people into boxes instead. Like how they used to shove Valjean into a box labelled ‘convict’ years ago, how they still shove me into the ‘police officer’ box when they look at me.”

He paused, and then fixed his eyes on Charani. “How they shove you into the box named ‘gypsy’ the moment they look at you.”

“Javert,” Valjean protested. But he didn’t continue; he _couldn’t_ when Javert shot him that dark, intense glance. 

“I don’t shove you into boxes,” Charani said, sounding practically petulant.

“Oh, but you just did,” Javert said. His smile widened further, baring his teeth. “You shoved me into a box named ‘cuckoo’, and refused to think of me as anything else no matter what I tell you.”

“That’s not the same thing,” the girl protested.

“Of course it’s not,” Javert shrugged. “But it’s _similar_. You see what you want to see. How do you expect other people to do otherwise?”

She crossed her arms, her nails digging hard into the skin of her elbows. “Because all of you keep _saying_ that people deserve to be looked at how they are instead of…” she made a movement halfway between a shrug and a jerk. “Instead of… of boxes. Why are _we_ the exception?”

“That’s my question for you,” Javert snorted. When Charani looked to protest again, he shook his head and held up a hand.

“Look,” he said quietly. “It took us two court trials before the country learned how to see Valjean as a person, and honestly, it still doesn’t work very well.”

Though Valjean had been doing his best to not interfere with the conversation – the circumstances were too different; Charani was judged not by what she had done but what she _was_ – he couldn’t possibly let that past. “That’s not true,” he protested.

Javert slid his eyes over to him. “Are you telling me that people don’t see you as some kind of martyr?” he asked, eyebrow hiking up to his hairline. “Some kind of idol to be worshipped instead of just another man?”

“You don’t,” he pointed out.

“We’re not talking about me,” Javert said, wry humour threading through his words. “But everyone else.”

“So,” Charani interrupted before Valjean could protest further. “You’re saying that I _have to_ speak up and make people see because… because they’re stupid?”

“Essentially,” Javert said. He turned to meet her eyes again, and the wry twist of his mouth deepened further. “You’ll find one or two people here and there who don’t need to have their eyes forced open that way – Valjean’s one of them – but with the rest…” 

He shrugged expansively.

“Oh,” Charani said. She looked down, one hand tugging on her braid. Her thumb stroked over one of the tiny bells threaded into the strands, a soft tinkling echoing around the kitchen.

“I thought…” she said softly. She lifted her eyes; the shadows the edges of them had spread even further, down to the corners of her mouth. “I asked to come here instead of anyone else because I thought that… If I fight, then no one else have to fight anymore.”

“You’ll always have to keep fighting,” Javert told her. In contrast to the harsh bluntness of his words, his voice was so gentle that Valjean’s heart ached at the sound. “Everyone will have to keep fighting. That’s the only way things can get better.”

“But _why_?” Charani blurted out, the question seemingly bursting from her. Her fingers gripped tightly onto the end of her braid. “If… if you all have made things better, then shouldn’t it be _better_?”

Javert made to speak, but before he could, Valjean stepped forward. He rested his hand on Javert’s elbow, turning his head to meet the young girl’s gaze.

When she was looking at him, he said, “‘Better’ doesn’t mean good.” He pushed away the memories of Montreuil-sur-Mer; of those days when the solid roof above his head cast shadows in his heart, and the money in his hands were like brands on his fingertips. 

He took a deep breath. “Everyone has been trying their best, but ‘best’ doesn’t mean ‘good enough’ either,” he continued. “There’s so much that we are still blind to. So much that we must still change. But in order to do that… We need your stories.”

“Stories,” Charani said flatly. Her eyes were narrowed with suspicion.

Valjean nodded. “The only reason why people stopped putting me in the box labelled ‘convict’ was when Marius told my story to the world,” he told her. 

Throwing her head back, Charani barked a laugh. “We’ve made our gods public already,” she said. “We made them into trinkets to sell for people who are curious. We wear these,” she grabbed the hem of her dress and threw it outwards, “and dance on the streets; we make-up our faces so we’re more _Roma_ , turning ourselves prostitutes to make a living. And now you tell me that we have to do _more_ to… to get some kind of respect?”

Taking a deep breath, Valjean stifled to urge to reach out for her, to draw her into his arms to soothe the sharp edges of grief and anger that shone so brightly from her dark eyes. He shook his head instead.

“That’s not the kind of stories I meant,” he said, keeping his voice even.

“Then _what_ do you mean?”

“Only what you just told me,” Valjean told her quietly. He ran a hand over his head. “Not the secrets of your community. Not what you hold here. But simply what your eyes see, and how different that is from what everyone else does.” 

Charani blinked. “Oh,” she said. She laughed after a moment, high-pitched and shaky. “It can’t be that simple.”

“It’s not simple,” Javert snorted. When Charani turned her attention to him, he gave her a small, wry smile. “It’s hard as hell to talk about what you see, much less in a way that people who have no experience of it can understand.”

“I….” She bit her lip, fingers twisting in her braid and loosening even more strands. “I can do that,” she said slowly. “But why would they listen?”

Valjean smiled. “That’s what we’re here for.” 

Finally, he allowed himself to reach out a hand. “You worry about the words. Leave making sure that they reach the ears of those who need to us.”

She took Valjean’s hand, the weight of hers barely more than a feather, her shoulder tense. But when she spoke, her eyes were on Javert. 

“Is that what you did?” she asked.

“About what?”

“There have been more tourists coming to Fort Lamalgue,” she told them. “And the police don’t hover around us anymore.”

Javert shoved his hands into his pockets, shoulders hunching. After a moment, he huffed out a breath that was almost a laugh. “All I did was to make sure that the superintendent knew that he was being a bastard,” he said. Valjean had a distinct impression that he would scuff his shoe on the tiled kitchen floor if he had less control over himself.

“It was the least I could do.”

“That’s…” Charani looked away from Javert to Valjean. The look she turned towards him was one that was familiar in its scepticism, though Valjean was more used to it being turned towards him. A look that said, quite eloquently: _Is this guy for real?_

Valjean laughed. He squeezed her hand in his, taking a step forward. “We should be doing more,” he said warmly. “That’s what Javert meant.”

Charani met his gaze for a brief moment. Then her eyes turned back to Javert, and she cocked her head. 

“Javert, right?”

When Javert’s head jerked upwards, she smiled. Her hand tugged at her braid again. “That’s the name you want me to call you by when I’m here, right?”

“Yeah,” Javert nodded. Valjean could see his hands clenching into fists inside his pockets. “That’s my name.”

“Then I’ll call you Javert,” she said. 

After a moment, she grinned, a hint of mischief in her eyes. “You don’t really look much like a bird anyway. Your bones are too heavy.”

Javert opened his mouth. After a moment, he sighed, dragging a hand through his hair.

“The metaphor makes _no sense_ when you translate it into French.”

“It makes plenty of sense,” Charani insisted. She glanced at Valjean, smile widening. “Right?”

Valjean blinked. He took a step back, holding up both hands in surrender. “I have no idea,” he said. “This isn’t something I’m an authority on.”

Charani huffed. She tossed her head back, flipping her braid behind her back, leaving a trail of soft tinkling in its wake. “He doesn’t look like a bird,” she said, waving in Javert’s direction. “That’s all you have to say.”

“I’m pretty sure ‘bird’ doesn’t mean the same to you as it does to me,” Valjean said, keeping his voice even though his mouth kept threatening to twitch into a smile. “So, really, I’ll abstain.”

She looked at him. After a long moment, the grin softened and turned into something that brightened her eyes. She laughed, soft and quiet.

“Okay,” she said. “Okay, I believe you.”

For some reason, Valjean had the feeling that he had passed some sort of test. He blinked at her, glancing at Javert out of the corner of his eyes. Javert merely shrugged.

Charani didn’t seem to have noticed. She plucked another cookie from the tray again, chomping on it. 

“I’ll try to put into proper words what I see,” she said with her mouth full. “Maybe also show how pretty the bird-colours are.”

Her eyes sharpened upon them both. “Will that do?”

“For a start,” Javert said.

“Good,” she nodded. A finger wiped away a fleck of frosting from the corner of her mouth. “Anyway,” she turned to Valjean. “What are these things?”

“Gingerbread cookies,” Valjean answered.

“They’re nice,” she said. She lowered her eyes, looking at Valjean through her lashes. “Can you make more? Can I bring them back?”

“I…” Valjean blinked. “Of course you can.”

“It won’t be too much trouble?”

“They’re not so hard to make.”

“Mm,” Charani nibbled at the cookie in her hand. “But I don’t have money to pay you back with.”

“You don’t have to pay me back anything,” Valjean reassured her immediately. The conversation was easy now; he’d had something similar so many times before that his responses were nigh automatic.

But here was the difference: most of the gamins whom he gave food to – fewer and fewer now, but still some because laws and policies could not force parents to become good – didn’t look at him with such sharp eyes. They didn’t stare at him while silence stretched between them as if they were waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Valjean didn’t allow his smile to waver. Beside him, he could hear Javert’s soft, steady breathing.

“Okay,” Charani said finally. “I’ll remember that.” 

She smiled, small and shy. She had dimples on both cheeks, Valjean realised; he had never seen them before.

This time, he knew precisely what test he passed. He ducked his head, chuckling softly.

“So will I,” he said.

They weren’t talking about cookies at all.

***

“You know,” Duval drawled. “When I first agreed to work with you guys, I didn’t think _this_ would be the consequence.”

He was standing in the middle of the living of the house on Rue Plumet, eyes crossing as he tried to make sure that little Gabrielle Fantine – all of thirteen months old – didn’t fall off where she was perched on his shoulders.

At his feet, Élise Therese shook her head, her short wavy hair bouncing. “Gabby is not a con-se-quences,” she said, enunciating with all the care her six-year-old self could muster. She lifted a finger, shaking it at Duval. “You’re being _rude_.”

“Consequence, singular,” Duval corrected absentmindedly. 

“Not the point,” Élise huffed, crossing her chubby little arms over her chest. She stuck her lip out. “You should apologise to Gabrielle.” 

Duval raised an eyebrow. He tugged on Gabrielle’s arm, and righted her immediately when she giggled into his ear and threatened to fall off from her position. “And I don’t think she’s old enough to understand what I said,” he said wryly.

“Doesn’t matter,” Élise shook her head. “You were rude. You should apologise. That’s what Mama said.”

“What Mama said,” Duval repeated. He sighed, melodramatically heavy, before he picked the toddler up, turning her around to face him. Gabrielle stared at him with Cosette’s large, dark eyes before she giggled, waving her fist in his face. It was sticky with saliva, and he dodged.

“I’m very sorry for insulting you,” he told her. Gabrielle stared at him, wide eyes unblinking, before she laughed again, shoving her fist into her mouth.

Sighing, Duval pulled it back out, shifting the baby until she was tucked against his arm. When Élise gravely held out her handkerchief, he took it and wiped at Gabrielle’s mouth, and then her hand.

“Happy?”

“It’s not about whether I’m happy or not,” Élise told him. She took her handkerchief back, folding it fastidiously and tucking it into the pocket of her little overalls. “It’s about _manners_. Mama said that we must always remember our manners.”

There was the sound of stifled laughter. Duval turned, eyes narrowing when he saw Philippe practically rolling on the couch. He glared before he stood up and dumped Gabrielle onto Philippe’s lap. Distantly, he noted the contrast between his dark skin against their far lighter ones – and immediately dismissed the thought, like he usually did.

“I’m tagging out,” Duval informed the man who was ostensibly his boss, his Président, but who was more like a really annoying cousin or brother at this point. “It’s your turn to deal with the kids.”

“That’s really not as terrible as you’re making it sound,” Philippe told him, grinning.

“Unca Philippe!” Gabrielle greeted. She held out her arms, toddler-imperious. “Hug!”

“Yes, yes,” Philippe said, and immediately engulfed her into his arms. He nuzzled her hair, and blew a raspberry against her temple.

Duval fought down a smile. “The reason why you don’t think dealing with them is bad,” he informed Philippe, “is because you spoil the hell out of them.”

“Bad word!” Élise accused behind him. “You’re not allowed to say bad words.”

“ _You_ are not,” Duval corrected, turning towards her. “I can do it because one, I’m an adult, and I’m special.”

“No one is special enough to use bad words when they’re not allowed,” Élise said. She sounded a little unsure, her little brows furrowing.

_They are when they’re street trash_ , Duval thought. But he was definitely not saying that to a six-year-old, so he only shook his head, reaching down to ruffle her hair. “You’ll understand when you’re older, kiddo,” he told her seriously.

He made a round through the place. Marius and Mathieu were both in the kitchen, supposedly helping M. Jean and Marius’ oldest with decorating cookies, but they were paying more attention to the young Roma girl Charani than they were to either the cookies or Jeanne and her namesake. That Combeferre kid – _Tristan,_ Duval reminded himself again, because it had been a couple of years and he still couldn’t get used to calling the kid by his given name – was standing in the corner, listening and watching the conversation, as was his wont.

Duval watched them for a moment before heading in the opposite direction.

Cosette, Azelma, and Clarisse were in the gardens, sitting on a wooden bench set against a large tree. Nicolas was sleeping on Clarisse’s lap, and Michel was sprawled over the other two women. Both boys had heavy blankets draped over them to protect them from the cold. The women’s were bent together, lengths of thick scarves entwining and separating as they murmured. One glance at the projector in Cosette’s gloved hands and the small square of words floating above it told Duval that the wives were just as bad as their husbands when it came to stopping work even for Christmas.

Stepping out of the gates, he walked over to the side and leaned against one of the high brick walls that surrounded Valjean’s property. The cold bit through his leather jacket and long-sleeved shirt into his skin, but he was used to far worse. So instead of heading in for warmth, he drew out his cigarette pack from his jacket pocket, lighting it up and taking a long drag before blowing the smoke up towards the ceiling. 

Honestly, he wasn’t quite sure what he was doing here. When Marius had first relayed the invitation on M. Jean’s behalf, Duval thought it was due to pity, some sort of half-hearted effort to make sure that the newly sibling-less orphan bachelor didn’t spend Christmas alone. But he walked in and Cosette dumped Gabrielle on him, and Élise had followed, and that was…

He could accept being in the Cabinet. He was needed there: if nothing else, he served as a symbol for their triumph over the calls for a more violent revolution, a link to those factions to ensure their continued cooperation with the government. Especially with the quiet whispers about Philippe’s near-dictatorial control over the country; as if the man had deliberately ensured that no one tried running against him in the last elections. No, that was fine.

But being invited here for Christmas was a whole other matter. Christmas was a time for _family._

Duval swallowed back the hoarse, barking laugh that was lingering at the back of his throat. No one mentioned it anymore, but Duval would always remember that he first met these people when he was trying to kill Marius. Sometimes he wondered if he was the only person who still remembered it.

Taking another drag of his cigarette, Duval stared up to the dark skies. It was barely six o’clock, but winter days were short and its nights were long. He could not see the stars. Even if he could’ve, he didn’t think he’d be able to recognise any.

“Give me one,” a voice demanded.

Slowly, he turned. Javert stood there, gloved hands shoved into his pockets and a scarf wound around his neck. When Duval raised an eyebrow in question, he jerked his head impatiently towards the burning cigarette in his hand. Duval snorted, taking out his pack again and offering it along with the lighter to Javert.

“If you keep smoking, old man,” he said dryly, “you might end up dead.”

Javert shrugged. “Hasn’t killed me yet,” he said. “Besides, if smoking still killed, then you and Clarisse would go first.”

Duval knew that this was his cue to protest. To say something about how he had no plans to die, or about the advancements in medicine in the past decades that made the risk of cancer practically inconsequential. 

“Eh,” he shrugged.

Thankfully, Javert didn’t say anything; only kept his eyes on Duval even as he blew smoke up towards the skies. After a moment, he shifted, bending his legs so he was squatting on the pavement, still leaning against the wall. 

He looked more like a hooligan in that moment than a police man, but it was the silver chain he always wore that caught Duval’s eyes. It caught a slice of streetlight, glinting bright. The perpetual question that hovered on his tongue whenever he saw the thing came back again, but Duval swallowed it back – there was no point in asking it. Not when he knew how private Javert was; not when he knew, too, that he had seen more of the man on the first day they met than most managed in years.

Christ. The first day they met. The interrogation room. Duval flexed his hand, trying to dislodge the strange, lingering weight of a gun. 

“So,” Javert said, casual and conversational. “What the fuck happened to your brother?”

Duval froze. He blinked, and slowly turned his head so he was looking down at the older man.

“Most people,” he said, every word deliberately dragged out, “actually make the effort to lead the conversation into that direction.”

Javert snorted. “If I do that, you’d think there’s something wrong with me,” he pointed out. When Duval didn’t look away, didn’t acknowledge the comment even though he knew it was true, Javert sighed.

“Did anyone try to ask?”

Duval sighed. He folded his legs, dropping down to sit next to Javert. He finished the cigarette, stubbing the butt out on the pavement before lighting another one. Javert didn’t even have the courtesy to raise an eyebrow at the chainsmoking; he just kept staring.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “They did.”

Practically everyone had tried to approach the subject, so much so that Duval had become practiced at diversion and evasion. No one else had asked him straight out like this.

“Told them anything?”

“No.”

“Okay,” Javert nodded. He flicked ash away from the cigarette in his hand.

“What?” Duval stared. “Just… okay?” 

“If you’re not going to tell me, then you’re not going to tell me, no matter how much I ask,” Javert said flatly. When Duval continued to stare, he shrugged. “I said, _okay._ ” 

Duval’s shoulders began to shake. For some reason, that was the funniest damned thing he had heard in a damned long time. He pressed his hand over his eyes, drawing up his knees and smacking his forehead against it. 

“You know the funniest thing?” His hand trembled when he drew another drag from his cigarette. “Verdier was telling me that he’d been investigating on where people are getting guns now that they’re being outlawed, and… and Dimitri’s gun gave them the lead they needed.”

Duval laughed, practically choking on the taste of it combined with smoke, burning down his lungs. “My brother shot himself in the head. Good thing that his death is useful, huh? That’s a hell of a comfort.”

“Verdier,” Javert said slowly, “is a fucking asshole.”

“No, no,” Duval said. He grinned wide enough that his cheeks hurt. “He’s being helpful. Because, you see… Maybe that’s why Dimitri killed himself, yeah? To help the police find leads to the black market on guns.”

“Do you believe that?” Javert asked quietly.

“Hell no,” Duval said, laughing again. His hand was shaking so much that the ash fell from the tip of his cigarette. He tried to brush it off, and ended up smearing grey all over his jeans. He brushed harder, practically clawing at his own thigh.

When Javert caught his wrist, Duval tried to pull out of that grasp instinctively. 

“But there’s not much else for me to believe, yeah?” he continued, the words practically tumbling out of his throat. “He didn’t leave a note or anything. So what the fuck else am I supposed to believe, huh?”

“It’s not your fault,” Javert told him.

This time, Duval’s laughter was loud enough to startle a couple of crows into cawing. He pulled at his hands again, but Javert was holding tight – all he managed to do was to drop his cigarette to the ground. He stared at it, half-mesmerised by the bright orange embers that started to flicker.

Mathieu would find some kind of metaphor in that, he thought inanely.

“Should’ve tried harder,” he heard himself say. “Should’ve done more than just get him out of jail.” His shoulders shook.

He didn’t know why it was _Javert_ he was saying all of these things to; Javert with all of his sharp edges; Javert who had no idea what quiet comfort and gentle sympathy meant. Javert who looked as if he pulled a muscle every single time he had to speak to politicians in their gilded, formal language.

Oh. Maybe that was why. Duval didn’t know anymore.

“It’s not your fault,” Javert repeated.

“Dimitri was so fucking proud, you know?” Duval said, hearing the words but they weren’t getting into his head. “His brother, France’s _Ministre des Affaires éstrangères_. Meeting all of the dignitaries. Talking all posh to them. But he…” He laughed again, shaking his head hard. “Should’ve stayed street trash. Then maybe he’d still recognise me.”

Lifting his head, he gave Javert a grin, wide and broad and macabre, exposing not only his teeth but his gums as well. “You gonna arrest me for fratricide?”

When the punch came, he didn’t see it; only knew it was there was his head snapped to the side hard enough to smack against the brick wall. Pain exploded: on his cheek, on his temple, inside his head. Somehow, it made it easier to take a breath.

“Fuck,” he said. He rubbed his hand over his face. “Fuck. What the fuck am I doing here?”

What the hell was he saying? How the hell did he end up talking about this? His mind was taking detours and meanders that he couldn’t follow, and that didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense. He tried to smack his head against the wall again.

But Javert’s hand was there, cushioning the blow. Duval forced open his eyes – his vision was blurry, but he tried to focus on the older man’s face anyway.

“You’re here because Valjean and the others think that you’re family,” Javert told him. 

Duval blinked slowly. That was… he cocked his head to the side. “Family,” he repeated, the weight of his incredulity so great that it crushed the upward inflection at the end of the word.

“Fuck if I know why,” Javert shrugged. “But they think so.”

He couldn’t help it – he laughed again. This time, the edges of the sound were so sharp that he ended up coughing. Javert let go of his hand so he could press it against his mouth.

When he pulled it away, he was surprised at the lack of blood on it.

“I tried to kill Marius when I first met him. I tried to kill all of you.” He looked up, and grinned at Javert again. “You know that. You were there.”

“Yeah,” Javert said. He shrugged again. “But you see, the people beyond those gates? There’s something wrong with their heads. They think that something like that doesn’t matter.”

“It’s actually pretty important,” Duval pointed out. Somehow, he managed to stifle down the urge to laugh again.

“You’re preaching to the choir,” Javert told him. There was something Duval half-recognised as wryness in his tone. “I used to hunt Valjean down. Cosette said she remembers a terrifying night when my voice was the source of horror. But here I am.”

Duval blinked. “Oh,” he said dumbly.

His lips were dry. He licked them, staring down at his hands for a moment. “That doesn’t…” he shook his head. “Doesn’t explain why I’m here.”

Plucking Duval’s pack out of his jacket pocket, Javert drew a cigarette out with his teeth. He lit it, and blew smoke upwards towards the skies.

“I didn’t ask,” Javert said. “But if I did, I know what they’d say.”

He gave Duval a small, crooked smile. “No one who is family should be spending Christmas – or hell, any other day – with only ghosts.”

His skin felt cold; not the normal chill of December air, but the sterile air-conditioning of a morgue. Something flashed at the back of his eyelids: a large drawer, one and a half times the width of a man’s shoulders. A body with a stitches-scar on his elbow and a half-blown up head. A voice, soft: _We need you to identify him_. 

“You can’t—” Duval squeezed his eyes shut. He shoved the images away. “That’s not how it fucking works. Getting more family – more brothers, or whatever – it can’t…”

“Not what they’re trying to do,” Javert said. His voice seemed to come from an ocean away.

A hand landed on Duval’s shoulder. He flinched, jerking away from it, and it left.

“Thing is,” Javert continued. “They asked you here as a reminder.”

“A reminder,” Duval repeated.

“Yeah,” Javert said. Duval heard the crinkle of paper as it burned; as Javert took another drag. “That you don’t have to be alone while you deal with this.”

He shook his head. His shoulders shuddered. When he opened his eyes, he stared at his knuckles. The very notion was ridiculous.

“You’re no longer that kid in the dumpster, yeah?” Javert continued. “Hell, like you said, you’re Minister of Foreign Affairs now. Your job is to make sure that the country’s not alone in this fucking shithole of a world.”

That wasn’t how Duval would describe his job. Still, he didn’t protest.

“Why do you think they’d let you be alone?”

“That’s not the same thing,” Duval blurted out immediately.

“Probably not,” Javert said. When Duval opened his eyes, he met his gaze squarely, and shrugged. “But are you going to argue with all of them at once about it?”

“You…” Duval started. His shoulders began to tremble again. But when the laughter came this time, it didn’t cut into his throat. His chest was still on fire, but his throat didn’t hurt.

He dragged a hand through his hair. Stole the cigarette from Javert’s fingers and took a long drag through it, huffing out smoke through half-formed chuckles.

“Fuck, but you’re shit at comforting people,” he said.

“Nah,” Javert admitted easily. “I know my limits, and that’s not something I’m capable of doing. So I don’t try.”

“You don’t try,” Duval repeated, one eyebrow rising even before he noticed it. “The hell do you call this, then?”

“First aid,” Javert told him. “Lancing a boil. Whatever you want to call it.”

Duval stared at him. “If you’re looking for the Minister of Health, she’s inside there,” he pointed out.

Javert gave him a flat stare back. “I mean that I’m removing the infection,” he said. “Cleaning up the wound before it can fester even more than it already is.”

“Why.”

“See, I’m a selfish bastard,” Javert said, leaning back against the wall. “I currently hold the record for having wounds that have festered for the longest, and I don’t want anyone to beat it.”

“That’s,” Duval started. He couldn’t continue: _ridiculous_ wasn’t nearly strong enough a word for what he wanted to say. 

Shrugging, Javert stole his cigarette back and took a drag from it. When Duval looked closer, he could practically see a hint of a grin on the old man’s lips.

“What the fuck,” he said.

When the laughter burst out of him this time, it was still manic, still hysterical. His chest still ached as if someone had ripped out his heart and left a spiked ball in its place. But, somehow, he could hear some trace of genuine mirth in his voice; could practically taste it on his tongue.

And here he thought he’d forgotten what it was like.

It couldn’t erase the images engraved at the back of his eyelids, or silence the coroner’s cold, echoing voice in his mind. It couldn’t stop the faraway echoes of gunshots either, or the threat of trash-stench hovering at the edges of his nostrils.

But it was something. It was something.

“Think you can handle the rest of the night?” Javert asked him when he stopped laughing.

Duval dropped his head back, letting it thud lightly against the wall. He took a long, shuddering breath. It felt too insubstantial on his tongue, so he lit up another cigarette. That didn’t help much, but it would have to do.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. His eyes slid over to Javert. “That’s what you came out here for?”

Javert shrugged. “Wouldn’t want you to make a scene in the middle of Christmas dinner,” he said, smoke exhaling between his teeth to punctuate his words. “There are kids in there.”

There was that hint of a grin again. This time, Duval genuinely had no idea if the old man was joking or not. And, quite frankly, he didn’t really care. Javert’s motivations for coming out here didn’t really matter either.

He was here. That was enough. There was still that hole in his chest, but… the spiked ball had been removed. For now, it was enough.

It was more than he could have hoped for, really.

Dragging a hand through his hair, deliberately raking his nails over his scalp, Duval sighed. “Do I have to go in right now?” he asked.

“Well,” Javert said. He motioned towards the cigarette. “You’re not supposed to smoke inside.”

So _not until you’re ready_ , then. Duval nodded.

After a moment, he gave Javert a smirk. It was probably a tired, half-hearted thing, but it was as genuine as he could make it.

“You know,” he said. “Despite what you like to say about being straightforward, you’re pretty damned good with that subtlety shit.”

Stubbing his butt out on the pavement, Javert gave him a wry glance. His hand reached beneath his collar, tugging on the silver chain.

“When you’ve spent so much time around someone, you pick up a few things,” he said.

Once, Duval had practically thrown the rumours about Javert’s relationship with M. Jean in his face. Like a knife meant to hurt. Now… now he knew it was true; knew even without anyone confirming it to him.

He gave Javert a crooked smile, shrugged before turning his eyes up to the dull grey winter skies.

“Guess so,” he said. “You’re a bastard, but still helluva lucky ‘bout that.”

Javert snorted. “Preaching to the choir,” he said.

They sat there in an oddly companionable silence until Duval finished his cigarette. Then they went back inside with the butts in their hands, and endured Élise’s tiny, disapproving glare. Duval tossed the things into the trash, took off his jacket, ruffled her hair, and helped to rescue Tristan from some sort of intense questioning slash grilling he was receiving from that girl Charani. Then he obeyed Javert’s shouted request to call the women in from their work to Christmas dinner after giving the man a middle finger while the children weren’t looking.

After dinner, Valjean asked him to stay over. He looked into the man’s bright, sincere eyes. The spiked ball hadn’t returned to his chest for the whole time since he came in, and he knew it would slam back with a vengeance when he headed back to his empty apartment.

So he accepted.

In the morning, he woke up to children yelling at their parents about presents, something about having to wait a whole day more than their other friends. He watched, and helped Élise deal with some of the more troublesome wrapping paper. She was a backseat present-opener the whole time, huffing constantly that he wasn’t being careful enough.

It was a good Christmas. It would’ve been better if Dimitri were here; if he hadn’t felt his brother’s absence constantly tugging on his insides. But that wasn’t something he could change – he was too late for that – so… It was a good Christmas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Notes:** When I first outlined this chapter, I was going to write about the actual Christmas dinner plus political discussion. That was literally what I wrote down.
> 
> And then I started properly typing this chapter. What came out was this instead. I don’t know what is going on anymore. This entire series is more about OCs than about canon characters. Especially since there are actually like _four_ canon characters – Valjean, Javert, Marius, and Cosette – if I discount Azelma, who is more of a canon OC than anything else. Oops.
> 
> (Also, there’s another reason why Duval is here in this chapter right after the one about the Roma. Please tell me if you managed to catch my implications? Hints: go back to the descriptions about him, and think about speech patterns.)


	18. Seventeen, 2152

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When a man dies, the people around him have to pick up the pieces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter Eighteen: Seventeen, 2152**
> 
> **Warnings:** Descriptions of suicide and its aftermath on people around them. Depiction of horribly insensitive media coverage and its effects on the people concerned. Vague discussion and depiction of class issues. Entirely focused on OCs again.

“They’re calling it the shot that reverberated around the world.”

Verdier’s drawling voice was sharp enough to cut through the low murmurs coming from the holographic projector. Chabouillet didn’t look up. But Verdier ignored social cues whenever it suited him, like always, approaching the Préfect’s desk and dropping down onto one of the armchairs near it. 

Before he could mute the news channel that was playing, however, Chabouillet twirled his pen around, pressing the top of it against the other man’s wrist.

“Not even a hello,” he noted mildly. “Is this how you greet your boss?”

Unfazed, Verdier shrugged. “Hi,” he said, dragging out the vowel into melodrama. His hand was still beneath the pen. “But I’d think that you have something more important to think about, sir.”

When Chabouillet didn’t reply immediately, the younger man cocked his head, lips slowly curving up into a smirk. “Or are the rumours right that you’re not going to investigate this? Just leave it as another clear suicide, case closed?”

He was never like this with Gisquet, Chabouillet thought mournfully; never tested the previous Préfect when he was only Secrétaire like Verdier kept doing to him. But then again, Verdier’s relentless pushing of his boundaries was what made him valuable as Secrétaire in the first place.

Chabouillet sighed. “I’d love to just declare this to be an easy case,” he said, withdrawing his pen as he leaned back against his chain. His foot kicked at the floor, pushing away from the desk. “But we can’t do that, can we?”

“Shot that reverberated around the world,” Verdier repeated, reminding him. He shook his head. “Former dictator decided to kill himself using the gun stolen off of one of his guards –a story ripped straight from the drama channels. The country’s all over it. We have to do something.”

“We usually don’t do anything with suicides unless there’s something suspicious about the circumstances,” Chabouillet pointed out. “It’s not our job to find out why someone wanted to kill themselves. We’re not psychologists.”

“But we _have_ to do something,” Verdier insisted.

“Why?”

Verdier blinked. “What?” 

“Protocol says that we do nothing,” Chabouillet said, keeping his voice even. “It would be better for us as an institution if we keep our hands off of the affair, because taking a direct hand will mean that we’re taking personal interest in M. Philippe. The people will get the message that M. Philippe’s affairs _are_ the police’s affairs, and therefore the government’s affairs.”

“Isn’t that already the case?” Verdier asked. To his credit, the question sounded genuine instead of cynical.

Chabouillet sighed, shaking his head. “At some point, we’ll have to make sure that people don’t equate the government with M. Philippe.” When Verdier still stared at him, obviously uncomprehending, he elaborated, “This is his second term, and he’ll have, what, two, three years more of it? Both of us know that he’s not going to run,” hell, he even had a successor lined up and trained to ensure that he didn’t need to, “so if everything isn’t going to be thrown once more into unrest, then…”

He shrugged.

Pursing his lips, Verdier didn’t speak for a long moment. His fingers drummed on the table. “We talk so much about history,” he said finally, every word deliberate, “and now we’re going to just forget about the most prominent remnant of recent history? We’ll look like complete hypocrites.” 

“No,” Chabouillet said. “The _police_ never talked about history. It was all Mm. Philippe and Frey.”

“The police helped with the revolution that resulted in our current government with Mm. Philippe and M. Frey in charge,” Verdier countered immediately. “How are the two different?”

This was an old, old argument between the two of them. Chabouillet sighed, pulling off his reading glasses and dropping them on his desk. He switched off the holographic projector – the news channels were starting to repeat themselves, and he was sick of seeing that particular photograph of Louis-Jérôme's half-shattered skull with blood and brains sprayed all over the floor and walls.

“Look,” Chabouillet said. “For us, the case is closed. If there are going to be more investigations regarding that man’s death, they’re not going to come from the police.”

“But—” Verdier protested.

“That’s final,” Chabouillet cut him off, holding up a hand. “As police officers, it’s not our place. We’re not revolutionaries anymore, Verdier; we’re the enforcing arm of the government, and the government _must_ keep out of its players’ personal affairs. No matter how high up or how important those players are.”

Verdier fell into a mutinous silence. His hand clenched on the edge of the desk. “That’s how _you_ see it,” he said finally.

“And that’s how it’s going to be,” Chabouillet said firmly. “If you want to change that, you’ll have to wait until I’m retired. Or dead.”

Verdier snorted. He slumped back against his chair, folding his arms and tipping his head to look up at the ceiling. Chabouillet picked up his pen again, tapping it over his palm. He waited.

“You didn’t stop me when I conducted a full-scale investigation on Dimitri Duval’s death,” Verdier said.

Chabouillet sighed again. He dragged a hand through his hair. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw the full, stark white of the strands; Christ, he was old. Probably too damned old for this, and the days when he was Secrétaire to the Préfect instead of being the Préfect himself seemed a lifetime away.

“We had an excuse for that,” he said softly. “The weapons black market.”

It was a wise decision for Verdier to have placed Delattre and Fournier in charge of that particular case. Not only did they uncover the entire black market of weapons – not just guns, but bombs, drones, and tanks as well – they also exposed a plot to bomb Palais Bourbon to kingdom come that was masterminded by a group of faux-nobility who’d had their lands and wealth taxed so heavily by the new government that they went bankrupt. The black market was formed as a way to finance that particular operation. Delattre also traced the exact gun that Dimitri Duval had used on himself all the way out of the border of France into Belgium. 

Then again, Chabouillet knew with absolute certainty that having those answers didn’t help at all with Clémence Duval’s grief at his brother’s suicide. In fact, he was pretty sure that it worsened it – it was the Minister of Foreign Affairs who had opened up trade with Belgium again, after all. Sometimes Chabouillet still couldn’t help that dull, aching surprise whenever he saw Duval still breathing whenever they had a Cabinet meeting.

Verdier hadn’t spoken for this entire time. His fingers were drumming against the table again, and there was a deep furrow between his brows.

“You’re not going to find any excuse for this case,” Chabouillet told him. “Just… let it go.”

Closing his eyes, Verdier sighed. He raised his arm, and then dropped it over his face. “Fuck’s sake,” he said, half-muffled by his own skin. “We’re the fucking police, yeah? We’re supposed to bring justice.”

“There’s no justice to be brought with this case,” Chabouillet said. “No villains for us to arrest.”

When Verdier looked at him, Chabouillet smiled, crooked and mirthless. “If there was a villain, he was blown out along with Louis-Jérôme’s head.”

Verdier’s shoulders shook. “Fuck,” he said again, with more emphasis this time. “There’s nothing we can do about this, huh?”

“Yeah,” Chabouillet said softly. He reached over the desk and patted the nearest spot of Verdier’s arm he could reach. 

“I hate cases like these too.”

***

When Tristan was first invited into the Palais Bourbon – three years ago now – M. Mathieu Frey had told him that he was lucky to have arrived at the late date that he did. The seat of the government used to be far uglier, with bare walls without any paint or paper, hardwood floors without carpeting, and electric lightbulbs that were covered by grills. M. Frey laughed and said that it was only when M. Duval started building good enough relations with foreign countries that they decided to, in his words, “pretty up” the Palais, because letting dignitaries see the terrible state of their country embodied in the main government building meant that none of their negotiations would succeed. And none of those dignitaries would ever take their explanation of symbolism seriously.

Tristan researched on that topic a few hours afterwards when he arrived back at his own apartment, because if there was anything he’d learned about M. Frey within the first few days of knowing him, it was that he tested people indiscriminatingly and on a constant basis. All that he had been told was true. He found this out too: M. Philippe increased taxations on the private properties of the rich after announcing that the Palais would be properly renovated in order to have enough money to pay for those materials. He would have paid for it himself, but M. Philippe had already been a pauper – all of the money that the _Maison de Napoléon_ owned had been in the hands of his father.

So now, as he walked through the beautifully papered hallways of the Palais Bourbon, as he took in the elaborately-carved doorframes and the crystal chandeliers, Tristan couldn’t help but wonder if M. Philippe regretted not waiting for his father’s death before renovating the building. 

If he was of any state to even think about such a thing.

Tristan’s footsteps echoed down the hallways as he headed towards M. Philippe’s office. The Palais was in a rare condition – it was empty. Most of the staff – the Ministers and their officers all – were given the day off and told explicitly to keep away from the Palais. The government was still running, but everything was hastily taken to the separate Ministry buildings or even on the Internet and intranet. Everyone knew better than to disturb their Président after yesterday afternoon’s news.

Honestly, Tristan wasn’t quite sure what he was doing here. He knew that he didn’t need to be. M. Philippe and M. Frey weren’t his friends – they were his mentors, his _employers_ in truth, and though he held a great deal of respect for them, he knew that there was an entire ocean that separated them. It was the same with M. Duval and M. Pontmercy, and even Mme. Frey and Mme. Pontmercy. 

They were the revolutionaries, the generation that enacted the miraculous change in the country. He came so much later that he hadn’t even been part of the revolution. Though Tristan knew that was part of the reason why he had been chosen, there was still that distance that could not be bridged.

Still, he had to do something.

When he reached the high double-doors of M. Philippe’s office, he stopped. There, lying flat on his stomach on the couch placed against the wall, was M. Duval. His head was resting on his arms, and his eyes were closed. He looked as if he had fallen asleep. Tristan wasn’t sure if he was.

Honestly, he was never sure about _anything_ regarding M. Duval. The man managed to be even more of an enigma than M. Javert despite Tristan having to work much closer with him than with the latter. 

Taking a careful step forward, Tristan debated whether to call out to the man. He was still dithering when M. Duval spoke.

“Kid, your footsteps are so loud that I could hear you coming from the end of the hallway.” Every word was drawled out, and he didn’t even open his eyes.

Tristan winced. “I’m sorry for waking you up?”

“Don’t bother,” M. Duval said. He swung his legs up, shifting with cat-like grace until he was sitting up, knees spread with his elbows on top of them. His dark eyes were as piercing as usual despite his heavy lids. “I wasn’t asleep anyway.”

“Oh,” Tristan said.

M. Duval looked at him. After a moment of silence, he scratched the back of his head. His fingers sunk into the thick, wiry curls, sending a few of them falling over his face. A year ago, he’d kept his hair cropped to the skull in a National Guards-esque kind of style, but it now reached his ears, a controlled dark cloud framing his sharp-angled face.

Though Tristan had seen pictures of M. Duval’s brother Dimitri – he couldn’t avoid them when they were splashed all over the news channels after the man’s suicide last year – he knew better than to assume that M. Duval was growing his hair out to honour his brother. He knew better than to assume _anything_ about M. Duval.

The man never failed to make him incredibly nervous. So much so that it took him a couple of seconds to realise that he was being asked something.

“I’m sorry?” he asked. “I was…”

“You were staring at me,” M. Duval said, sounding incredibly amused. “And wondering what the fuck I was doing here, pretending to nap on Philippe’s couch. Yeah?”

Tristan stifled an instinctive flinch. It wasn’t the swear word – he had heard worse during his travels – but it was the location and how easily M. Duval had flung it out and allowed it to echo down the hallway.

He shook his head instead. “Not really.”

M. Duval hummed thoughtfully. His eyes rested on Tristan for another moment before he slid over to the other side of the couch in a movement that reminded Tristan of the big cats he’d watched on nature channels in his youth. 

“Sit your ass down,” the older man said. “I’m tired of craning my neck up to look at you.”

“Okay,” Tristan said. He sat down.

There was another moment of silence. Tristan tried to not fidget – the couch was comfortable enough. But M. Duval wasn’t even looking at him; he was digging into his pockets for something. After a moment, he drew out a scarf – bright colours in a random mess that looked like someone had spilled a dozen watercolour pots over the cloth – and tied it over his head, pushing his hair back.

“So I was saying… you here to offer your condolences?” he said when he was done.

Tristan blinked at him. He bit his lip, and nodded.

“Yes, Monsieur,” he said.

M. Duval met his eyes for another moment. Tristan refused to look away.

“Okay,” the older man said. “What are you going to say to him when you go in?”

“I…” Tristan looked down at his hands. He resisted the urge to start picking underneath his nails. “I don’t know,” he said under his breath.

“Mm,” M. Duval said. “That’s a pretty good answer.”

“It is?” Tristan blurted out. He shoved a hand over his mouth immediately. “I’m sorry, I…”

M. Duval laughed. He reached out, dropping a hand on top of Tristan’s hair. Tristan ducked immediately, squinting his eyes shut as the older man ruffled the strands. He was supposed to be the future Président of this country; he wasn’t supposed to be _this damned nervous_ about this man.

“It’s a good answer because the last thing anyone in Philippe’s position wants is for you to start pontificating about something or another,” M. Duval said. “Or for you to start throwing out information or solutions in some sort of fucked up attempt to help them.”

He shrugged. “Best thing is for you to say that you don’t know what to say, and go with something like ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’ Sounds trite as hell, but it works.”

When Tristan blinked at him, his lips curved up into a sharp, wry smile. “Believe me, I know.”

“Oh,” Tristan said. He bit his lip, and tried to not fiddle with a strand of hair that had fallen loose from his ponytail.

Then he looked up, meeting M. Duval’s eyes. He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said. His voice was steady.

The older man blinked. Then he threw his head back and laughed. It was a beautiful sound, loud and rich and deep, echoing down the hallway and practically filling the entirety of the abandoned Palais. 

“Took you a year to gather up the courage to say that, huh?” M. Duval grinned.

Despite himself, Tristan found himself blushing. “I’m sorry,” he started, but M. Duval was already shaking his head.

“Why are you so scared of me, kid?”

“I’m not—” Tristan stopped when the older man raised an eyebrow. He took a deep breath, flexing his hands on his lap. “I’m not _afraid_ of you, Monsieur. I just… I just don’t know what to think of you.”

M. Duval laughed again. “I can see why,” he said.

“You can?” Tristan blinked, because _he_ certainly couldn’t, and it made no sense that M. Duval could see the insides of his head better than he himself could.

“Mm.” M. Duval nodded. He nudged at Tristan’s shoulder. “Move over.” 

When he did, M. Duval turned, stretching out his legs and dropping his calves onto Tristan’s lap, leaning his shoulder against the leather cushions of the couch’s back. Tristan blinked at him, but received only a wide, enigmatic grin in return.

“See, I’m not like anyone else who works here,” M. Duval said. “Not even Javert or Azelma. That’s why you don’t know what to make of me.”

“I…” Tristan started. He tugged at his ponytail – a habit he had been trying to break but couldn’t. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Think harder,” M. Duval said, nudging at Tristan’s hip with his shin.

Tristan’s brows furrowed. M. Javert, Mme. Frey, and M. Duval… what was it that connected them such that M. Duval brought up the other two specifically? They were…

Oh.

“All three of you were …” he flapped his hands a little. The concept was full-formed in his head, but he wasn’t sure how to put it into words. Not in front of this man, anyway.

“We were street trash, yeah,” M. Duval said. He was still grinning, though the edges had gone dark. “But neither of them willingly took part in the things that made them the scum of the streets. Azelma was forced into it, and got out the moment she could. And Javert was on the other side of the fence and was only tarred by the same brush because of something he couldn’t help.”

He laughed again. “Whereas me,” he waved an extravagant hand towards himself. “‘I got my hands fucking dirty. And yet Philippe made me the diplomat, the representative of the country, and I’m pretty fucking good at the job if I say so myself.”

“You are,” Tristan blurted out. It was true – he had accompanied M. Duval on a lot of his negotiations, both within France and outside of it, and he had watched the man practically play diplomats and ministers who were just as experienced or even more than he was like puppets until they were dancing to his tune. There were plenty of treaties that Tristan _knew_ were only favourable to France because it had been M. Duval who had negotiated them.

If there was anyone who would be the hardest to replace in M. Philippe’s current Cabinet, it would be M. Duval.

“Thanks, kid,” the man was saying. He ruffled Tristan’s hair again. Then he bent his knees and scooted closer, leather squeaking in his wake. His voice lowered until it was barely more than a breath in Tristan’s ear:

“Tell you a secret,” he said. “It’s damned easy to negotiate with rich bastards once you can get people who have you at gunpoint to do what you want.”

Tristan blinked. He fought down a shiver. M. Duval was grinning, wide and baring teeth, as he drew back.

“Philippe made me the Minister of Foreign Affairs because I was, and still am, street trash,” he said matter-of-factly. “ _That’s_ how you think of me.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it.”

The voice, coming from behind him, nearly made Tristan jump out of his skin. He whirled around. The door to M. Philippe’s office was open, but it was not the Président who was standing there, shoulder against the doorframe and arms crossed – it was M. Frey.

“Don’t listen to him,” he told Tristan. He looked at M. Duval, and raised an eyebrow. “We got you as Foreign Minister because you managed to convince five different groups of people ready to go on murderous rampages to get behind a peaceful revolution.”

“Prettier words for the same thing,” M. Duval countered. He grinned up to M. Frey. “Gunpoint, remember?”

M. Frey blinked. “Wait,” he said slowly. “They _had you at gunpoint_ when you were negotiating with them?”

“Yeah,” M. Duval shrugged. When M. Frey continued to stare at him, he cocked his head. “I didn’t tell you that?”

“No,” M. Frey said slowly, dragging out the word until one syllable turned into four. “You just came and told us that you did it. When we asked you how, you just grinned at us.”

“Oh, come on,” M. Duval threw up his hands, barely avoiding slapping Tristan with them. “You asked me to convince a bunch of violent assholes that violence is a shit idea and that they should all turn into tree-hugging peace-lovers. What did you _think_ would happen?”

“I…” M. Frey hesitated. He dragged a hand through his hair. “Christ. We never… We never _knew_.”

“Eh, ancient history,” M. Duval shrugged. “Doesn’t matter anymore. What are you doing out here?”

Tristan had a sudden suspicion that he was going to get whiplash with how much he was turning his head to watch one Minister then the other. His head was spinning too – he had read about what M. Duval did, of course; he had even watched the recording of that famous confrontation between him and the others. But everything was so _different_ right from the horse’s mouth.

He had experienced the exact same thing for the past three years. He still wasn’t used to it. He didn’t think he would _want_ to be used to it; to speak to and hear from the history-makers themselves.

M. Frey looked a little dazed too, though likely for a completely different reason – M. Duval’s swift change of subject. 

“I’m getting water for Philippe,” he said. 

“Isn’t there a water dispenser right at M. Philippe’s office?” Tristan asked, the question spilling uncontrolled out of his mouth.

When the other two men turned towards him, he rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ve used it before,” he tried to explain. “That’s how I know.”

“He’s calling you out on your bullshit,” M. Duval said, likely trying to be helpful by translating. 

“No, no, I’m not,” Tristan protested immediately. He shoved down the urge to bury his face in his hands even though he could feel his cheeks start to burn.

Rolling his eyes, M. Frey sighed. “Fine,” he said. “I saw the two of you on the camera just by the door.”

He paused. “Besides, I think Philippe needs to have another perspective other than mine about this whole thing.” His eyes rested on M. Duval before shifting to Tristan. “That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it?”

“I—” Tristan started, but he was cut off abruptly when M. Duval wrapped an arm around his shoulders, dragging him backwards so Tristan’s back was against his broad chest. M. Duval’s large, long-fingered hand pressed over his mouth. Tristan tried to struggle out of that grip, but despite M. Duval’s usual desk-bound job, he was too _strong_ to escape from.

“Yeah,” the older man said. Tristan could hear the wide grin in his voice even though he couldn’t see it. “That’s what we’re here for.”

M. Frey’s eyebrow climbed slowly up his hairline. “To provide Philippe with some kind of entertainment?”

“We can be here for that too.”

Brown eyes narrowed. Tristan tried to not squirm too much even though the feel of M. Duval’s breath over his ear was starting to make him shiver. 

After a moment, M. Frey sighed. “Whatever,” he said. He stepped backwards, reaching for the doorknob. “Come on in, then.”

“Okay,” M. Duval said. Then, in a flash, he let go of Tristan, standing up. Tristan nearly tipped over and fell off the couch onto the floor, but there was that hand on his arm, righting him and pulling him to his feet. He tried to not stumble as M. Frey opened the door and let them into M. Philippe’s office.

If M. Duval was trying to help Tristan straighten out his tangle of thoughts about him, he had failed spectacularly; Tristan was even more confused than before. The way his skin seemed to tingle and burn underneath M. Duval’s hand on his arm didn’t help either.

But all thoughts of the older man disappeared when he finally stepped into M. Philippe’s office. The room was dark – the blinds were closed, and the lights dimmed down. M. Philippe was sitting on his couch, head bowed and eyes fixed upon his own hands, clasped white-knuckled tight and hanging between his spread knees.

He looked up at their entrance. His eyes were red-rimmed. “Hey,” he said. His lips curved up into a smile.

Years ago, when Tristan had been but a little boy who knew nothing about politics and was still living with his parents, he had been playing in the hallway and broken a vase. He remembered very clearly the moment when the thing had tipped off its shelf and crashed onto the floor, the sound of it piercing and sharp. When he had picked up one of the pieces, the sunlight had caught the edges of it, turning the crystal grotesque and beautiful both.

M. Philippe looked just like that.

Tristan’s mouth dried, words draining out of his throat and his head both. M. Duval’s advice on what to say seemed so inadequate now. He could only stand there, staring.

Then there was a hand between his shoulderblades, shoving him forward. He barely managed to catch himself so he didn’t fall flat onto his face. When he turned back, eyes wide, M. Duval smiled crookedly at him, and shrugged.

Alright then.

Taking a deep breath, Tristan took the three steps forward until he was standing in front of M. Philippe. The Président’s smile was a little less shattered now, and there was an encouraging light in his eyes that shoved a knife straight into Tristan’s chest. His hands clenched at his side.

Slowly, deliberately, he folded his legs until he was half-kneeling on the ground. Then he sat down on his calves, and reached out his hands. When M. Philippe took them, he tried to smile.

“I’m very sorry about your loss, Monsieur,” he said quietly. And, somehow, those words – cliché platitudes though they were – seemed to unlock something inside him. “I… I’ve never really felt anything like it. I don’t know what it’s like. But… I’m so, so sorry, nonetheless. If there is anything I can do, anything duties you would like me to take up—”

He stopped. M. Philippe was shaking his head.

“It’s fine,” M. Philippe said. “You don’t have to.”

“But I want to, sir,” he said, slipping into the form of address he knew M. Philippe didn’t want him to use but which seemed far more suitable than _Monsieur_ right now. He squeezed M. Philippe’s hands in his. “I want to.”

“Let him do it,” M. Duval said. His voice seemed to slice through the heaviness of the room. When all eyes turned towards him, he shrugged.

“He’d probably have to do it for you one day, Philippe,” he stated baldly. “Either him, or someone he trained to take his place. So let him do it.”

Once again, Tristan didn’t know what they were talking about. He blinked.

“I,” M. Philippe started. He swallowed, lowering his head. “It’s not… it won’t be fair.”

“If you change your mind later on, then he’ll still have the information,” M. Duval said. “It’ll become useful.”

His voice gentled. “Better than you or Frey here, yeah?”

Tristan took a deep breath. He leaned forward until he could catch M. Philippe’s eyes again. “Whatever you need me to do, Monsieur, I will,” he said, putting as much earnest sincerity into his voice as he could. “Let me _help_. Please.”

M. Philippe squeezed his eyes shut. He let out a breath that was unlike any other laugh that Tristan had ever heard from him – too short, too bitter.

“Don’t promise things when you don’t know what they entail,” M. Philippe told him finally.

Shaking his head, Tristan tried to give the older man as sweet a smile as he could. “I know you would not take advantage of the offer, M. Philippe,” he said. “You’re a good man. That’s why I made it.”

There was a moment’s pause. M. Philippe’s eyes were wide. After a moment, he gave that laugh again, but it was lighter, this time. Tristan tried to stem the sudden warmth in his chest – it was too early to feel accomplished over anything.

“Okay,” M. Philippe said. “I… okay.”

Silence. Tristan waited.

“Help me find the records of how my father organised my grandfather’s state funeral?” the Président asked finally. “I was too young to know any details when that happened, so…”

Oh. Tristan blinked. _Oh_. All of the details of the previous conversation snapped into place immediately. His eyes widened, and he couldn’t nod quickly enough.

“Of course,” he said. “Of course. I…” he hesitated. “Will you like me to do that now?”

He might not know everything, but he was certainly clever enough to know that M. Duval’s presence outside of M. Philippe’s door wasn’t by accident. There was something he wanted to say, and Tristan knew that he would prefer to do it without having to explain every other sentence to him.

“Please,” M. Philippe said. He smiled again – it was less broken now, as if a weight had been lifted off of him and the pieces of his insides shifted from powder back into proper pieces in that absence.

Tristan nodded. He squeezed M. Philippe’s hand again before letting go and standing up.

“Alright,” he whispered. Then he bowed, low and deep, before he headed for the door. As he pulled it open, he couldn’t help but turn back to look at M. Duval again, meeting those dark eyes with his own green ones.

“Knock it out of the park, kid,” the older man said. His smile was crooked, but the upturned edge was strangely soft. Tristan inclined his head towards him, then to M. Frey – who had stood silently beside M. Philippe’s desk all this while – before he left the room.

***

The moment the door closed behind Tristan, Duval strode from where he had been leaning against the wall towards his usual window – the only one that could be opened because it didn’t face the street. He pulled open the blinds, spraying sunlight through the room, and shoved the glass outwards. Then he sprawled himself over the wide sill and dug out his cigarette pack, pulling one out and shoving it between his teeth. The _click_ of the lighter rang loud in the room.

Mathieu watched him without saying a word. Neither did Philippe speak. Both of them knew what he was doing here; what connected the three of them on this particular day.

But Duval didn’t say a thing. He simply sat there smoking as if he had come to Philippe’s office to do precisely just that. 

“Tristan’s a cute kid,” he said finally. “Isn’t he?”

Philippe blinked. As Mathieu watched, the shadows lingering at the corners of Philippe’s eyes – the ones that had appeared there the moment he had received news of his father’s suicide – began to… not dissipate exactly, but lessen. If only temporarily.

“You like him,” Philippe accused, pointing a finger at Duval.

The man tossed back his head and laughed, soft and hoarse. “Not a cradle robber,” he said around his cigarette.

Mathieu couldn’t help but snort. “The age difference between the two of you is just a little more than that between Azelma and me,” he pointed out. “Do you see _me_ as a cradle robber?”

Duval gave him a sideway glance. He plucked the cigarette out of his mouth, flicking the ash out of the window. “Hell _yeah_ ,” he drawled.

“Bullshit,” Mathieu waved a hand. “This is about you thinking of yourself as street trash again, isn’t it?”

His point struck true – Duval looked away. After a moment, he shrugged. “Bad idea anyway,” he said. “He’s future Président. He’ll need a pretty girl on his arm at some point.”

“Uh,” Philippe spoke up. His lips twitched as he pointed out, “ _I_ don’t have a pretty girl on my arm. 

If Philippe wasn’t mired in self-loathing he shouldn’t feel, Mathieu knew that he would have continued: _The prettiest thing on my arm is usually my brother_. The absence of that tease was almost a physical weight in the room.

“Good point,” Duval said. Before Mathieu – and Philippe as well, he knew – could process that Duval was actually _letting them win an argument,_ the man was whirling around. His feet kicked against the wall as he stabbed his cigarette in Philippe’s direction without spilling ash on the carpeted floor.

“We’re not talking about me. We’re talking about you.”

“That wasn’t—” Philippe started. He fell silent, and looked away. “It’s…” His shoulders shook. “It’s not fair.”

“World isn’t,” Duval said. “We might try, but it’s still shit in the end.”

“No,” Philippe shook his head. “That’s not what I mean. It’s just…” He stared down at his hands. 

When he spoke again, his voice was so soft that even Mathieu, who knew exactly what he was going to say, had to lean in. 

“Verdier sent me an email three hours ago,” he continued. “He was… he was apologising to me. He said that Chabouillet forbade him completely to investigate what happened. Said it was a closed case. He said that he wanted so badly to help, to figure out _why_ — to figure out the reasons behind what happened, but his hands are tied and he just kept saying _sorry_ and that’s not- that’s not fair.”

He wiped at his eyes. “Then there’s,” his voice hitched. He took a steadying breath. “Don’t worry, I didn’t look into it myself, I asked Mathieu – everyone’s speculating about- about _why_. Everything about him is coming out and… and that’s not fair. That’s not fair. It’s not fair to _you_.”

Duval took a long drag of his cigarette, burning it down nearly to the stub. “You’ve lost me,” he said. Despite the flat tone, he looked genuinely confused.

“The police didn’t make the same offer to you,” Philippe said, his lip trembling as he looked up at Duval. “The news channels didn’t do the same for- for Dimitri. They should have. They should… That’d have been fair. That’d be…”

“Done?” Duval asked, one eyebrow hiked up.

Philippe nodded.

Slowly, deliberately, Duval took the last drag from his cigarette. He tossed the butt out of the window to join its compatriots down on the pavement. Then he pushed himself away from the windowsill, pulling the blinds back down in the same motion, and walked over to Philippe. He stood over him, looming over Philippe, casting him into shadow. Mathieu’s brother stared at him, his lips parting.

“I’m sor—”

“If you apologise to me,” Duval said, low and soft, “I’m going to hit you.”

Philippe’s mouth clicked shut. He stared. Mathieu settled a little more against the desk.

There was a reason why he had been hoping that Duval would come. This was it.

Reaching down, Duval cupped Philippe’s face, his hands infinitely gentle. Then, like a viper, he struck: he grabbed onto Philippe’s collar with one hand, stretching the cloth as he dragged him to his feet. His other hand dug into Philippe’s dark hair, clenching onto the strands and forcing blue eyes to fix upon his own narrowed ones. 

“Do you think,” Duval said, in the same quiet tones, “that it’s a good thing, what you’re going through? Seeing the pictures of your father’s body being splashed all over the news? Knowing that the entire country, the entire _world_ , is familiar with what he looks like with his brains on the outside and his skull decorating the blood on the floor? Knowing how he looks with his lower jaw missing, and bits of his tongue lolling out?”

“Clémence,” Philippe tried.

“I’m not done, Monsieur Président,” Duval said, smiling with teeth. “Kindly shut up.”

Mathieu watched Philippe’s Adam’s apple bob. He pressed his hands even harder against the desk, stopping himself from lunging forward and pulling Duval off of Philippe. This was necessary, he told himself. 

No one else could do this.

“They had the decency to ask me for the nicest picture I have of my brother to put all over the news, you know,” Duval said. “I gave them one of him looking happy in exchange for leaving the matter the fuck alone. And they did. Because I don’t matter shit to them. Dimitri doesn’t matter shit to them.”

He cocked his head to the side. “And you know what? That’s a _good thing_.”

“But you matter,” Philippe blurted out. “Both of you matter. It’s not fair that they—”

“You’re right,” Duval said, and Philippe’s eyes widened to almost comical proportions, staring. “It’s not fair, what they’re doing to you. What they’re doing to your father.”

“That’s not what I mean!” Philippe burst out. He shoved at Duval with both hands. The taller, broader man let him go immediately, his arms falling by his side. Philippe, left bereft without support, swayed, starting to fall forward.

Duval caught him with one arm around the chest before he could plant his face onto the ground. Philippe made a ragged sound like his throat was being slashed to pieces, and he simultaneously tried to cling tighter to that arm and push it away.

Even before Duval turned to catch his eye, Mathieu was already moving. He grabbed Philippe with both arms around his waist, pulling him close. When Duval let go, Mathieu stepped backwards until he hit his knees against the couch. He dropped down onto the cushions without letting go of Philippe, fingers splaying out on his brother’s chest to push their bodies together, using Duval’s hand between his shoulderblades to sit upright against the couch’s arm. 

“Not what I meant,” Philippe was gasping out. “That’s not… I can’t, no—”

Mathieu buried his face into dark hair. “Shhh,” he murmured. “Shhh.” 

At Duval’s questioning squeeze, he nodded. The other man let go of him, leaving him to sit up by himself so he could walk around the couch and sit on it, facing Philippe.

“Listen,” he said. But Philippe wasn’t looking at him, shaking his head from side by side, his whole body trembling. 

Duval caught his face with both hands, and pulled him closer. “ _Listen_ ,” he said, and this time his voice was whip-sharp.

Philippe stopped struggling. He stared at Duval, wide-eyed. A single tear trickled down his face. When Mathieu wiped it away, he didn’t seem to notice.

“The people – _your_ people – want a villain for their stories so badly that they’re hurting you with it,” Duval said, his voice infinitely gentler than before. “They’re practically crowing over Louis-Jérôme’s death, and they forgot that he was your father. They forgot that he was a man with a son, and that his son loves him.”

“No, they’re not- I can’t,” Philippe tried to shake his head. Mathieu ran a hand through his hair.

“You _can_ ,” Duval said, forcing Philippe to look into his eyes. “You can think what they’re doing is wrong. You can be angry at them. You can hate them for what they’re doing.”

“That,” Philippe squeezed his eyes shut. “I can’t do that. If I… if I hate them, then I’ll… I’ll turn into—” He stopped, trembling silently, unable to continue.

He took a deep breath. “They’re trying to help. I should be focusing on that. I should be.”

“Look at me,” Duval said. Though he wasn’t raising his voice, the steel in it was so strong that Philippe’s eyes snapped open. Duval smiled at him, crooked and mirthless.

“I still want to punch Verdier in the teeth for what he did,” he said. Philippe opened his mouth, but Duval steamrolled over him.

“Oh, I know that he was trying to help,” he said, voice a little dry. “I know that he was trying to make me feel better by ensuring that no one else would die like my brother did. But that’s not particularly comforting when I had to endure _months_ of the news channels talking about Dimitri, over and over, because of Verdier’s little investigation.”

His smile widened. “Because, you see, it was like my brother’s corpse was being dug out from his grave every single time I tried to put him to rest,” he said. He raised a finger and started to twirl it in the air. 

“Every single time I said to myself, I’m okay with the fact that he’s dead, I had to deal with the news channels talking about him, and I’d think he was alive again.” The finger folded back into his fist. “Over, and over, and over. It’s fucking shit to go through, let me tell you.”

“I’m—” Philippe started.

“The threat to hit you if you apologise to me still stands,” Duval cut him off before he could begin.

Then he sighed, dragging a hand through his curls, tugging the scarf free. “I was pissed at Verdier. I’m still pissed at him. But I know he’s a good man.” He paused. “You see where I’m going?”

Philippe shook his head. “No,” he whispered.

Duval reached out, ruffling Philippe’s hair. Somehow, the gesture was fitting even though Philippe was older than he was – no matter how many years passed, the age in Duval’s eyes had always been at least twice the number on his birth certificate. 

“Accept that your people are doing a shitty thing to you,” he said calmly. “Let yourself hate them for it.

“Because, you see, hating them a little doesn’t mean that you’re going to stop doing your best by them. Just means you’re a person.”

“But what if I…” Philippe’s voice fell into a whisper. “What if I end up like _him_?”

Mathieu buried his face into Philippe’s hair, stifling the laughter that wanted to erupt out of him.

But Duval had no such qualms: he full-out _cackled_ , the sound loud and echoing around the room. When Mathieu pulled away from Philippe so he could look in his face, he almost lost control of his mirth at the look of sheer _insult_ in his eyes.

“My dear _Monsieur Président_ ,” Duval drawled, “sweet Philippe, hottest leader of a country I’ve ever met… Your father was a dictator. _You_ have a fucking Cabinet.”

“What?” Philippe blinked. “What does that have to do with anything?”

Duval spread his hands out. “What do you think we’re _for_? Nice statues to put in your meeting room? Out-of-season Christmas trees? Window decoration?”

“I don’t,” Philippe hesitated. “I don’t understand.”

“From the beginning, we have been here to make sure that you’re acting according to the Constitution of the Sixth Republic that we’ve all set up together,” Mathieu told him softly. “We’re here to make sure that you won’t have a chance to abuse your power.”

“What he said,” Duval waved a careless hand in Mathieu’s direction. “We’re here to kick your ass, not to kiss it.”

For the first time since the night before, Philippe’s trembling stilled entirely. Then he tugged himself away from Mathieu’s grasp, turning so he could look at Mathieu, then at Duval.

“Oh,” he said softly.

“Yeah,” Duval said, his tone the verbal incarnation of an eye-roll. But he was smiling. “ _Oh_.”

Philippe’s eyes dropped down to his hands. Silence stretched between the three of them before Philippe’s shoulders began to shake again. Mathieu knew his cue: he wrapped his arms around his brother, tucking Philippe’s head against his shoulders.

The touch seemed to break something inside Philippe. He started to laugh, high-pitched and hysterical and loud. His hand clawed at Mathieu’s shoulder, over and over, until Mathieu caught his hand and tangled their fingers together, holding on tight. 

He didn’t know how long it took for Philippe’s laughter to change into wrecking sobs. He only knew that he sat there holding his brother, kissing Philippe’s hair and temple, over and over. When Duval tried to leave, he grabbed the man’s wrist, dragging him back down. 

They might have met in the most inauspicious of circumstances, but Duval was a friend. Mathieu had thought him to be a friend for a very long time.

It was not just Mathieu who thought so: when Duval’s hand brushed Philippe’s by accident, Philippe grabbed it, and held on. 

When Philippe’s sobs had quietened into sniffles, Duval left the couch and went to get water. Mathieu gave it to his brother, coaxing him to drink some, before he pulled away. Duval picked Philippe up then, hoisting him in his arms like a full-grown man was merely a feather to him, before he followed Mathieu to the garage where a car was waiting.

Once Philippe was lying on his lap and the car was moving towards Mathieu’s house – because he wasn’t going to let Philippe go home to an empty apartment, especially since he barely lived there – he looked at Duval again. The other man, his old student, was staring out of the window.

“Thanks,” he said quietly. It wasn’t just for what he did for the day.

Duval, as usual, caught his meaning. But he shrugged, looking away again. “Glad to be useful,” he said, voice so sardonic that Mathieu felt a flash of irritation go through him.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he said. When Duval raised an eyebrow at him, glancing towards Philippe as if saying _you couldn’t have dealt with that yourself,_ Mathieu shook his head.

“I’ve known you for years,” he said. “More than everyone else around this government of ours. And you _always_ do that.”

“No idea what you’re talking about,” Duval said, meeting his eyes squarely.

Mathieu cocked his head to the stop. When he spoke, he used the precise accent that he’d spoken with in class – long ago, when he was still a teacher surrounded by students instead of a Minister surrounded by policies. 

“Stop fronting, you dumbfuck.”

Duval stared at him, wide-eyed, for a moment before he laughed. “Didn’t think you’d remember how to speak like that,” he said.

Rolling his eyes, Mathieu sank his fingers into the sleeping Philippe’s hair, stroking over the strands. “I spent months learning how to ‘speak like that’,” he pointed out. “I’m not going to just throw my efforts away so easily.”

“Mm,” Duval nodded. He looked away again, this time plucking his scarf out of his hair to wind it around his fingers.

“Look,” he said before Mathieu could say a word. “I know what you’re trying to do. But you know the line about old dogs and new tricks? Don’t waste your breath.”

“Okay,” Mathieu said. At Duval’s incredulous look, he grinned. “I wasn’t going to try to convince you. Just reminding you.”

“Of what?”

“You’re not just here because there are services you can render,” he said, crooking his mouth into smile. “But also because we trust you and want you to be here. And you’re not less than any of us in any way. Yeah?”

Duval looked at him for a long moment. Then he smirked. “Should I be saluting and going ‘yessir’ at this point?”

Rolling his eyes again, Mathieu said, dry as dust, “We’re politicians, not soldiers.”

There seemed to be nothing Duval wanted to say in response to that, so they fell into silence again. It was only nearly an hour later – when they had reached Mathieu’s house and deposited Philippe into his room and bed, and both of them greeted Mathieu’s children – that Mathieu remembered that there was one last thing he wanted to address.

It wasn’t something he would usually interfere with. But Philippe was asleep, and out of commission for a rather significant period of time, so Mathieu figured that he should step up to this particular position. No matter how strange it was to him.

“Hey,” he said, catching Duval’s sleeve right before he was going to leave. “Tristan could do a _lot_ worse than you.”

Freezing mid-step, Duval turned back. He met Mathieu’s eyes for a moment before he barked a laugh, shaking his head.

“Don’t,” he said. “You’re shit at this.”

Mathieu had to concede that point. “Have to tell Philippe that I at least tried.”

“Fuck off out of my business,” Duval told him. Before Mathieu could argue – why should he given that _Duval_ was all up in his, after all? – the other man was already out of the door, his hands shoved into his pockets and curls bouncing with every step.

He waved towards Mathieu right before he stepped into the car. Before Mathieu could respond, the upraised hand turned into a middle finger, and Duval threw back a grin.

Years ago, he’d done precisely the same thing right before he walked out of the classroom. Mathieu wondered if Duval had held onto his roots so tightly out of his own choice, or if he did it because those roots were twined so tightly around him that he couldn’t even begin to pull away.

The thought was brief; it didn’t matter. 

As the car disappeared around the corner, Mathieu closed the door. Then he went to check on his brother and children, and called his wife.

One day, he was going to tell Duval that he wouldn’t be able to have any of those things if not for his help. And he would make sure that the man listened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More evidence that _Hamilton_ has taken over my life: unlike my other OCs, I have a _very_ clear image of how Duval looks like. Google ‘Daveed Diggs’. That’s Duval. Except that his hair is just a little bit shorter.
> 
> Is Tristan/Duval going to happen? I have no idea. I have no control over this fic. Tristan wasn’t even supposed to be in this chapter.
> 
> One more year left.


	19. Eighteen, 2153 [Part One]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean Valjean sat on a wall. Jean Valjean had a great fall. And all of Président’s horses, and all the Président’s men…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Book II Chapter Nineteen: Eighteen, 2153 [Part One]**
> 
> **Warnings:** This is the chapter that deals with the year right before Epilogue 2. What do you _think_ happens? Also, rapid-shifting POVs – these are less full scenes than snapshots of an entire year. Split into two chapters because of length.

**_March  
_**   
Some of the old stories that Delattre had read in the past ten years – and a few of the new ones as well – had talked about That Moment. That singular heartbeat’s worth of time that could be boxed up and labelled as ‘the beginning of the end’.

It wasn’t something he had given thought to until one day, in the midst of running the recruits’ drills, M. Javert’s phone rang. Delattre didn’t pay much attention to it at the time: M. Javert’s phone calls during work hours usually involved some sort of instructions being delivered by the Préfect, and Delattre would hear about it sooner or later.

Months down the road, he would regret not looking; he would wonder, over and over, just what M. Javert’s face looked like when he first received the news.

Now, however, he was watching Fournier push the first-year recruits harder in their physical drills.

“Move faster!” the other man was yelling. “You think criminals would really stop just because you’re telling them to? You’re no National Guard; you have no guns to wave!”

One of Chabouillet’s first acts as Préfect was to take the guns away from the police – in accordance, the old man had said, with the laws that made the possession of the things illegal to everyone else. Law enforcement could not be an exception to the law, after all. Delattre understood the reasoning, but it made actually doing their jobs so much harder.

Then again, that was what the academy was for.

He was so caught up in watching the recruits and taking note of those who had the potential of passing the first year of testing that he completely missed M. Javert’s approach. So when his name was called, Delattre nearly jumped out of his skin.

“Sir!” he stood at attention immediately, saluting by instinct. When M. Javert didn’t reply –didn’t even scoff at him – Delattre’s hand dropped back to his side.

M. Javert’s face had gone completely white. He was staring at his phone, clutching it so hard that his bones stood out from his skin.

“What is it, sir?” Delattre asked.

There was no reply for long moments. Delattre tried to not fidget. His mind started running through every possible thing that might have gone wrong with the police that would cause such a reaction.

“I’m taking leave for the rest of the day,” M. Javert said finally. Every word was abrupt, the last consonant bitten off. When he lifted his eyes to meet Delattre’s, they were sharp-bright, like chips of ice.

“Valjean’s been taken to the hospital.”

Delattre’s mind screeched immediately to a stop. He blinked. After a moment, he nodded slowly.

“Go to him, sir,” he said quietly. “I’ll take care of everything here.”

M. Javert looked at him for a long moment. Then he gave him a crisp nod – a senior officer acknowledging his junior – before he spun on his heel and left the training grounds for the car park. Delattre watched him go.

For the past few years, he had been witness to many moments between M. Javert and M. Jean Valjean. It was a hazard of the job he couldn’t really help, but he _could_ stop himself from wondering more about their relationship.

Seemed like a waste of effort, though: the answer was right now, writ in the tight tension of M. Javert’s shoulders.

*

**_April  
_**   
When she first came back from South Africa, Lucille tried to argue against there being a hospital for psychiatry that stood all on its own. There should be new wings for the current hospitals instead, because if they separated mental illness from all others, they would be repeating history, going all the way back to the times when healing the mind was thought to be a matter of will.

But there was really not enough space. It wasn’t logical either, Azelma told her, eyes soft and tone apologetic, because Lucille would have to split herself ten, twenty ways in order to take care of every wing of every hospital. But Lucille insisted; couldn’t help herself, really, not when she sometimes still saw the ghost of her son, hovering at the edge of her eyes, urging her constantly to do better.

So they reached a compromise: every hospital didn’t have a whole wing dedicated to psychiatry, but they had at least a section. The new hospital was built and completed two years ago, and Lucille had been working there. She didn’t like it – the building was fine, as perfect as she could make it, but she was so far away. Half an hour by car to reach the main hospital of the city, the one that Azelma worked at.

It wasn’t a lot of time, she knew. But it was half an hour she couldn’t spare with all of the work she had to do; all of the people she had to meet and teach and help heal. The time was cut into half if she took an ambulance, but Lucille had learned better about misusing her privileges long ago.

A month. It took her a month before she could wrangle at least two hours to head down to see Azelma; two hours she knew Azelma would be at the hospital instead of Palais Bourbon.

Now she stood at the door of the younger woman’s office, practically fidgeting. It was so much easier, she thought half-hysterically, to try to broach the idea of grief when it wasn’t a friend.

“Lucille?”

She turned. Azelma stood there. Her hand was clasped atop a man’s elbow – he had short white hair, piercing blue eyes, and a face that everyone in the country knew.

“M. Javert,” she greeted. “Azelma.”

Azelma exchanged a glance with M. Javert. The man nodded after a moment; his lips curved into a smile that twisted a knife deep in Lucille’s chest with its immediate familiarity.

“I’ll go back to him,” he said, almost too soft for Lucille to hear. He leaned in, and kissed Azelma on the forehead. “You get back to work, alright?”

“Monsieur,” Azelma said, and there was a wealth of unspoken emotion in the curve of her fingers as she squeezed M. Javert’s arm. Lucille looked away – it was too much, too intimate; she had no place between them and did not wish for one either. Instead, she waited until Azelma was pushing open the door to the office, and followed her in.

“Is everything alright?” Azelma asked.

Unbidden, Lucille’s lips quirked into a smile. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and looked at Azelma. She noted with a doctor’s efficiency the heavy shadows underneath the dark eyes, the deep creases beside them and around Azelma’s mouth. Her eyes darted down, and she saw those fingers, permanently curled, as if trying to hold onto something that was rapidly disappearing.

She came here with words of comfort. Questions, perhaps. Some vague ideas for solutions. Yet now, what else could she do but to simply step forward, and wrap Azelma in her arms?

“Lucille,” Azelma started. 

“Shh,” Lucille murmured. She sunk her hand into Azelma’s hair, stroking through the strands. “You’ve done so much. Let me do something for you, this time.”

“I don’t, I,” a ragged breath. Lucille turned her head, pressing her lips against Azelma’s temple, and held them there. “I’m alright. It’s not… It’s not as bad for me.”

“I know,” Lucille said. “And you’ll be there for those who do feel worse. But I’m here.” She kissed Azelma’s thick, brown hair again. “I came here for you.”

“Oh,” Azelma breathed. Her head dropped onto Lucille’s shoulders. Her chest shuddered beneath her hands.

Wrapping her arms tighter around Azelma, Lucille stepped backwards until her shoulders hit the wall. Slowly, she slid down to sit on the floor, bringing Azelma with her.

In South Africa, she’d learned a multitude of words. She used those with her patients, placing the solid weight of them into their desperately-grasping hands, using them to exorcise the wide-eyed loss and confusion in their eyes.

But she learned throughout these two years, too, that there were things that were too large for words. That needed no words at all.

Azelma didn’t cry. Her breath was even, easy. That was fine too. Lucille wasn’t here to try to put her back together.

Only to remind her that she didn’t need to be alone. 

*

**_May  
_**   
“Delattre has been doing the background work for the academy ever since it started. He knows better than I do what’s going on the ground, honestly, especially with the recruitment side of things because I generally don’t bother except to give speeches.” 

Javert took a deep breath. His hands, held stiff by his side, curled and uncurled. He glanced downwards for a moment before staring back straight ahead.

“Any ideas that I could have contributed, I already have. Delattre probably has better ones, at this point. There should be no adverse changes if the academy is passed over to him.”

Chabouillet twirled the pen between his fingers, eyes fixed upon the man who had once required his patronage but had long since proven his worse. Javert had grown thinner through these past few months, he noted. His skin looked as thin as paper. 

Most of the time when people took unpaid leave, they came back looking better. But then again, Javert hadn’t taken leave these three months to go gallivanting on a vacation.

“Monsieur?” For the first time since he came into the Palais of Justice and headed straight for Chabouillet’s office and started ranting, he sounded unsure.

“Okay,” Chabouillet said.

Javert blinked. He opened his mouth, and clicked it back shut. “What?”

“I said okay,” Chabouillet repeated. He picked up the envelope on the table, putting it into a drawer without opening it – he knew what it was, and reading Javert’s words never told him as much about the man’s intentions as looking in his eyes. “I accept your resignation, effective immediately. You don’t have to justify your decision to me further.”

Immediately, Javert slumped. His hands shoved into his slacks, and his eyes dropped to his shoes. It was as if Chabouillet’s words had cut some sort of string that was holding him up.

“I don’t…” He licked his lips. “I don’t want you to grant my request as a personal favour to me, Monsieur.”

Chabouillet couldn’t help but smile. Javert’s hair had gone completely white over these years, but that sense of justice and fairness never drained out of him along with all of the grey.

“That’s not why I agreed,” he said, keeping his tone carefully professional. Any form of gentleness or sincerity would be unwelcome now, he knew. “I would have approved the immediate resignation of anyone whose spouse is ill.”

Javert jerked his head up. His eyes widened until they almost took up half of his face. 

“You _knew_?” 

“Of course,” Chabouillet said, stifling the urge to roll his eyes. “I make it a point to know as much as I can about all of my officers, Javert.” 

Dropping his elbows on the table, he steepled his hands. His lips twitched into a small smile. “And the two of you are pretty obvious to anyone who takes the care to look.”

Those blue eyes were still wide on him. Chabouillet sighed. He stood up, circled around the desk, and practically dragged Javert to sit down on the chair.

“I’ve always known,” he said. That might be an exaggeration, but only slightly – he figured things out the moment Javert dragged Valjean into the Secretary’s office, so many years ago. “And it doesn’t matter to me, what people like to say about such things. What you have with him has made you change for the better. That’s what I care about.”

Javert looked up at him. His jaw worked for a long moment before he squeezed his eyes shut and nodded. “Okay.” His voice was softer than Chabouillet had ever heard it. His hand trembled as he dragged it through his hair. 

“Okay.”

Chabouillet looked at him for another long moment. There were words on his tongue, heavy and weighted, but he swallowed them back. Condolences meant very little, he knew, and platitudes ever less.

He dropped his hand on Javert’s shoulder instead, squeezing it hard. 

“So you can leave your job whenever you like,” he said. “You can just drop everything. I’ll handle the handover to Delattre.”

Javert opened his mouth, starting to protest. Chabouillet squeezed his shoulder again.

“If there’s need for you, we’ll call,” he said firmly. “Or ask for a video conference through the intranet. Alright?”

“I’m not going to shirk my duty, Monsieur,” Javert said, and, oh, there was that fire in his eyes again. Chabouillet smiled.

“You’re not,” he said. “You just have a duty that’s more important, now?”

When Javert blinked, obviously confused, he rolled his eyes.

“Go home, Javert,” he said. “That’s where your duty lies now.”

He did not continue: _though it’s not one that will last for long_. With the look in Javert’s eyes, the open-parenthesis hunch of his shoulders, and starved-sharp bones of his cheeks…

Chabouillet was sure he already knew.

*

**_June  
_**   
Once upon a time, there were many girls, all ripped away from their homes by circumstances and the vicious cruelty of men. There was a princess whose father wanted to marry her because she was the most beautiful in the land; there was a rich girl turned poor because of her stepmother’s jealousy; there was a girl who grew to womanhood while she was asleep, and followed the father of her children to another land.

Those stories never said a single word about how these girls learned to breathe in the new city or land they found themselves in. There were no words about wind that should be salt-on-tongue but was instead ash-bitter; nothing about the weightiness of air; nothing about how the small bells in her hair, brought painstakingly from home, never did sound the same as they had used to.

None of those girls ever walked into strange lands armed with nothing but her wits and thick shields around her heart. None could tell her what to do when those shields began to fall, and she was left empty and vulnerable.

Charani tried to read the _gadjo_ stories, though the shapes of them were strange to her eyes. But she never learned to like any of them. They were never good enough to tell her what she must do.

Taking a deep breath, she dropped a hand from where it was toying with the end of one of her braids. She looked forward. It was a big house, with high walls and a metal gate that opened on its own when she pressed the button.

Still, it was more familiar than Paris’s streets. She had lived here just last year before her job was finished as much as it could be and she returned back to the square. Now she was back here again, and the words on her tongue had nothing whatsoever to do with her people. She was not here for their sake.

Grass crunched differently beneath wheels than they did feet. Charani stood there, a smile tugging uncertainly on the edges of her mouth, as Jean Valjean came towards her.

The past few months had stripped flesh from the insides of his skin, leaving the latter covering sharp, bird-like bones. He really did look like a dove now.

“Javert isn’t home, I’m afraid,” Valjean said. He gave her an apologetic smile that drew her attention to the deep creases around his mouth and eyes. _Pain_ , she immediately recognised.

She shrugged. “I’m not here for the cuckoo,” she said. Closing the door behind her, she walked around Valjean’s wheelchair, placing her hands on the handles as she started to push him back into the house. “I’m here to visit you.”

Cocking her head to the side, she peered at him. “That’s okay, right?”

Valjean laughed. The sound hadn’t changed, she noted: still a quiet wheeze, as if he had forgotten how to laugh years ago and never really learned again.

“You’re supposed to ask that _before_ coming here, I believe,” he said, sounding amused.

Shrugging again, she navigated the new ramp that had been placed on the steps. She nudged the door open with a foot. “You _gadjo_ have too many rules about things,” she said tartly. “Most of them are not really worth learning.”

He chuckled again. There was a brightness in his eyes now, and Charani ducked her head to hide her own.

“So why are you here?” he asked even as he directed her towards the couches in the kitchens. “Is there something wrong? Can I help you with something?”

Charani stopped in her tracks. Her hands rested on top of the handles, and she bent her body so she was looking Valjean in the eye upside-down. The cuckoo once said, in their proper language, _like a flower that helplessly blooms in the sun, Valjean gives whatever he can, whenever he can. He sprawls all he has upon your feet, and invites you to take it_.

“I’m just here to visit you,” she said patiently.

“Surely you didn’t take the long trip from Toulon to see an old man?” Valjean asked. Charani righted herself and walked around the wheelchair so she could look at him properly – his soft, lopsided smile looked too strange otherwise.

“The trip is not very long,” she said. “Besides, you gave me cookies to bring to the square. You gave me a roof over my head when I was last here.”

She gave him a smile, half-exasperated. “As camp-father would say, there are no distances that are too long to cross in order to give thanks.”

Valjean blinked. His lips parted for a moment, and he shook his head. “You’re giving me too much credit. I didn’t do much.”

If Valjean was any other _gadjo_ , if the cuckoo hadn’t told her about the dove’s days of scraping for food, she would have simply dismissed his words as being just another sign of easy, blissful ignorance. Now she wondered if it was the dove’s customary self-deprecation, or if he had really forgotten.

Either way, it didn’t matter. She dropped her hands onto the wheelchair’s handles again, starting to push the old man towards the kitchens.

“Make me more cookies, then,” she said. After a moment’s pause, she added, “Or teach me how to, properly. Live up to that fishing saying you all like.”

Valjean was staring up at her. Charani met his gaze, raising an eyebrow, and he chuckled again – a softer sound this time.

“Give a man a fish, and he will be fed for a day,” he said softly. “Teach a man to fish, and he will be fed for a lifetime.”

He smiled. “Or that’s how I’ve always heard it said. I might be wrong.”

“Sounds right enough,” she replied. Walking over to the kitchen, she hoisted herself up to sit on the counter. Her feet swung back and forth beneath her. “What do I start with?”

As Valjean began to instruct her, his eyes bright and hands energetic despite the obvious care he was taking to not move his pelvis, Charani took down boxes and bottles, and started mixing the cookies. She wasn’t sure what she would do with them – there weren’t many children back in the square even if she would be returning in time for the cookies to still be good. Maybe she could dump them on that boy, the one with the ponytail named Tristan whom she had met last Christmas. He was a little too old for such sweet things, but she reckoned he would like it.

Well, it didn’t matter – she would figure out how to deal with them somehow, even if she had to eat them for days herself. Even if she became sick from them, it would be a small price to pay to ease the dove’s pain.

She wondered if the cuckoo would help her eat some. Probably, she decided. Especially when he realised what she was doing here. Provided that he didn’t kick her out immediately when he came back.

The cookies were nearly done baking when the cuckoo came home. He didn’t kick her out. He let her offer to make food for the dove, proper Roma food, and let her push the dove’s chair as they went to the market to find the ingredients. That was good, too.

There were always so many dying in the square, and even more back in the times when they had lived in camps. So Charani had long ago learned how to help them, and help those who loved them. 

Distracting them was helping, wasn’t it?

*

**_July_**  
****  
“Funny thing. I know how he takes his tea, and I know how he liked things done around here. I even know what he wants whenever he comes over now that he’s retired.” A soft, quiet huff of a laugh. “But I never asked about his age.”

Marius turned, blinking at M. de Courfeyrac. The older man’s gaze was still fixed upon the door where M. Dumas had just left, and there was a small, crooked smile on his lips.

He turned to look at Marius. “Do you?”

Wrecking his mind for a moment, Marius shook his head. “I don’t, actually,” he said, unable to stifle the note of surprise in his voice. “That’s… Hah.”

“Never seemed to matter, did it?” M. de Courfeyrac said.

“His hair has been white for as long as I’ve known him,” Marius said. He walked towards his desk – they were in the office of the Monsieur le Président of the Cour de Cassation; an office that Marius sometimes still didn’t believe belonged to him – and leaned his hip against it. “A lot of years have passed, but… he doesn’t seem to have aged at all.”

That was true, he realised. He knew far more about M. Dumas than he had during the first few years of their acquaintance, learning most about him during those years when he had served as his apprentice and incumbent successor. But all he saw were simply existing puzzle pieces of a jigsaw that were shrouded in mist before; there had not been anything new added onto the picture.

“It’s…” M. de Courfeyrac tapped his lip. He shook his head, walking over to the window and splaying a hand against the glass.

Marius had known the other man for a long enough time to understand that M. de Courfeyrac was not ignoring him; he was only gathering his words. So he waited.

“There’s something else that’s funny too, I think,” he said finally, turning back and looking at Marius with a small, wry grin. “When we were young, we would take the unchanging presence and nature of the adults in our lives for granted. They were immortals in our eyes. As we grew older and knew death, we should have learned better. And yet…”

Ah. Marius tore his eyes away from that too-astute gaze. So this wasn’t about M. Dumas at all. Not really.

“I suppose it’s a human fault,” he said, voice dipping into a low whisper despite himself. “To cling onto a belief no matter how ridiculous it seems.”

“Yes,” M. de Courfeyrac nodded. He gave Marius a wry, mirthless smile, shaking his head. “That’s a way to put it.”

Silence fell over them again. Marius thumbed at some of the files they had been looking through. They had gone with the decision of making paper copies of case summaries to be saved for future generations in case something happened – they had more than enough money and manpower for that now. 

Opening the thickest one, he tried to reread it. But the words were blurring together even though his eyes were still dry. He didn’t want to talk about this. Like a toddler that believed that if he stopped looking at something, it disappeared, there was still a part of him that believed that, if he refused to acknowledge the situation – even, _especially_ , in his own head – it would disappear.

“Azelma once said that words solidified things,” he murmured, running a fingertip over the edges of the paper. It was still crisp; he bent it. “Words made things real.” 

M. de Courfeyrac’s gaze was heavy on him. Marius didn’t turn to look at him.

“That works both ways, you know,” the older man said, right before the silence turned suffocating.

“What?” Marius blinked.

“There are stories aplenty that you can tell,” M. de Courfeyrac said. “If spoken words aren’t enough, then you can have them written down. There will probably be plenty written anyway. He’ll still be real.”

Marius shook his head. “It’s not the same,” he said.

“No,” M. de Courfeyrac conceded. “But there is _so much_ beyond words that still makes him real. So much that you can look at, and be reminded of him all over again.”

When Marius turned towards him, M. de Courfeyrac was staring out of the window again.

“Take M. Dumas for an example, if you will,” he continued. “Whenever you look at the Cour de Cassation, you’ll remember him. He’s the one who set down the previous laws; the scaffolding we had to work with in order to ensure change. When he dies…”

He glanced towards Marius out of the corner of his eyes. He chuckled again. “He’ll be remembered whenever we look at the building. Whenever we step into the courtroom.”

Marius opened his mouth, but M. de Courfeyrac wasn’t finished yet. “M. Jean Valjean had touched so much more.”

Staring down at his hands, Marius closed his eyes. He breathed out through his teeth and snapped shut the folder. Though he knew what M. de Courfeyrac was saying was true, though he knew that he would remember Papa whenever he took a walk down the street and saw the people living under their new government that was built by the hands of those he inspired…

“It’s not the same,” he repeated.

The sound of a sigh, heavy and deep. “Marius,” M. de Courfeyrac said. When Marius didn’t look at him, he dropped his hands on his shoulders, fingers brushing against his jaw, carding lightly through his full beard until Marius couldn’t help but open his eyes.

“You’ll have something to hold onto,” M. de Courfeyrac said quietly. “There will be others who will share your grief; who will hold you and cry with you and share their stories of him with you.”

His lips quirked upwards into a smile. It did not reach his eyes. “It’s not the same as before.”

Wrenching himself from M. de Courfeyrac’s grasp, Marius dropped the case files and clenched his hands into fists. “I know that, too,” he said. Even when he refused to put any of that knowledge into words, it was still _there_ , a solid stone in his mind. “But…”

Shaking his head hard, he closed his eyes again. “Why must people _leave_?” he asked. 

Plaintive, childish, and utterly unsuited for a man of his position… But Marius didn’t feel like a man now. He felt like the boy who rushed to his father’s house just in time to see his newly-dead corpse and hear the stories about how much his father had loved him. He felt like the boy who woke up alive when he should have be dead, and heard about how all of his friends had died. He felt like the boy who held onto his grandfather’s hand, throat full with pleas for him to not leave, and yet watching him slip away again.

He was so tired of death taking away the people he loved.

“They leave when it is their time, Marius,” M. de Courfeyrac told him. His voice was even gentler than before – something Marius didn’t think was possible. “And when they do… you have to let them go.”

Marius wiped a hand over his eyes. It came back dry. “Yeah.” His voice was steady too. He knew – they both knew – the consequences of holding onto a ghost far too well.

“But I’ve never been good at that,” he whispered.

M. de Courfeyrac looked at him for a long moment. When he enveloped Marius in his arms, Marius didn’t pull away.

“I don’t want you to be,” he said fiercely, squeezing tight. “The light in your eyes would go out if you do.”

Helplessly, Marius laughed. He dropped his forehead onto M. de Courfeyrac’s shoulders. When his breath shuddered out of his lungs, he felt as if a weight had lifted off of his shoulders.

“There’s too much work left for me to do,” he said.

The hand on his back closed around his shirt. Knuckles dug into his spine. But M. de Courfeyrac didn’t speak; he simply held him. Held him as he relearned how to breathe all over again.

Inhale, then exhale: two simple steps, yet two that he had to learn to do, over and over. And he knew that he would have to keep learning again and again. 

He was always the one left behind, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It gets worse next chapter. Which will be posted next week. Heh.


	20. Eighteen, 2153 [Part Two]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean Valjean sat on a wall. Jean Valjean had a great fall. And all of Président’s horses, and all the Président’s men…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> **Book II Chapter Twenty: Eighteen, 2153 [Part Two]**
> 
> **Warnings:** This is the chapter that deals with the year right before Epilogue 2. What do you _think_ happens? Also, rapid-shifting POVs – these are less full scenes than snapshots of an entire year. Continued from Chapter Nineteen.

**_August_**  
****  
Seated on a park bench at the Champ de Mars with his cane resting beside him, Khulai realised that he now didn’t understand the phoenix’s complaints about Parisian winds. The breeze that was curling through his snow-white hair was light, and smelled of sunshine and grass. If he were not old, if his joints would not protest the moment he tried, he would have stood up and danced, joining the tinkling of his bells to the leaves floating in the air.

The cuckoo and the phoenix had brought them here – Charani lending him her arm for support, Javert pushing the chair. But now both of them had left, supposedly to buy food, and Khulai knew they had done so in order to give him a chance to speak with Valjean. Both birds knew well that he was curious about this man who had managed to get past their defences for the cuckoo to love him and the phoenix to name him a bird of the shared nest.

So he said: “I never thought I could learn to love Paris again.”

Beside him with his wheelchair parked by the side of the bench, Valjean smiled. “It is summer,” he offered as an explanation. “Everything is more beautiful in the summer.”

Khulai shook his head. “I have spent many summers in Paris,” he replied. Instinctively, he pushed away the weight of the phantom collar on his neck and the ghostly chains on his wrists and feet. “All I remember of them was muggy heat. There was no beauty.”

Leaning back against his wheelchair, Valjean let out a quiet laugh. “I did not mean the season,” he said. Then, before Khulai could ask what he actually meant, he placed a gentle hand on his shoulder and pointed.

There, in the distance, under the shadow of the newly-rebuilt Eiffel Tower – a towering thing that reached towards the skies – were a group of young children. There were seven, all of them less than twelve, and they were laughing as they chased each other around.

“The city has been under a cold, biting winter for decades,” Valjean said softly. “But now it is summer.”

Startled, Khulai stared at him. Valjean’s lips twitched under his scrutiny, and Khulai laughed.

“It is very strange,” he said. “You are not speaking Roma at all, but your French was almost like it.”

Valjean ducked his head, instinctively and immediately bashful. He ran a hand over his head – though his skin was not speckled with dark liver spots like Khulai’s, the textrue was the same: thin and paper-fragile.

“Charani lived with us for months,” he said. “I picked up a few things, here and there.”

“A few months is but a very short time,” Khulai pointed out, amused. Men of their age knew that best, after all. “You are a very quick learner, dove.”

The sound of a youthful shriek interrupted Valjean before he could reply, and both of them turned at once back towards the children. One of them had been caught, and was now struggling under the combined weight of three others. All of them were laughing, so utterly caught up with their joy that they didn’t seem to notice the blades of grass and flecks of soil that were buried in their hair and clothes.

“You do not have children, do you?” he asked quietly.

“I do,” Valjean said. He blinked, looking confused. “You have met her, M. Khulai. Her name is Cosette.”

It never failed to take Khulai by surprise whenever he was called _Monsieur_ by one of the _gadjo_ , no matter how often the title came from Valjean’s lips. He pushed the old observation away, shaking his head.

“Children of your own body,” he said. “Your daughter was adopted, was she not?”

Valjean looked thoughtful for a moment. “I don’t see the difference between the two,” he said, sounding genuinely confused. “She is my daughter, whether of my body or not.”

That was the answer Khulai had expected from the man. Still, it was good to hear it confirmed aloud.

Stretching out his legs, he spread his arms along the back of the bench to steady himself as he fixed his eyes upon the children playing. “Before in the camps and now in our square, the child of one is the child of all,” he said quietly. “But most _gadjo_ do not think the same way, and that is very confusing.”

The dove gave him a quiet hum. “There are many reasons for that, I think,” he said quietly. “But I do not know if you will be interested in them.”

“I asked,” Khulai pointed out. After a moment, he chuckled, tucking a nearly snow-white braid back behind his ear. “Besides, if we ask _gadjo_ to try to understand us, then we must also try to understand you as well.”

“What I tell you might not help you to understand,” Valjean warned. “It might confuse you even further.”

“You were a teacher,” Khulai pointed out. His lips twitched slightly. “I am certain that you will help me understand.”

Valjean looked to protest, but Khulai raised his eyebrows. He turned around fully, shifting until his side was pressed against the back of the bench and his head was resting on top of his arm. He waited.

When Valjean spoke, his words were steady and thoughtful. He gave Khulai a brief history of the _gadjo_ , showing him how people with a permanent home wanted to leave that home to their children, which then gave rise to the tendency to separate themselves from the rest. It was, Valjean said, not very different from the Roma’s way of calling those outside of their community _gadjo._

Still, no matter how hard Valjean tried, no matter how many explanations he gave, Khulai still could not see the world through the eyes of those who had tried to trample his people beneath their heels for so long.

It didn’t matter. What he _did_ see was more important: the brightness in Valjean’s eyes, the soft-bright moonlight of his eyes; his patience with Khulai even when he didn’t understand. There was this too: the way he brushed over the cuckoo’s hand when the latter came back, and the fierce creature’s softened gaze when he looked at the dove; the phoenix’s ease with him, so stark and clear when she chose to sit in between them instead of sticking close to Khulai.

Khulai allowed himself a moment to feel regret. It truly was a pity that he would not have the time to get to know this dove better; to fully understand how it was that his bright, trilling song had managed to break the heavy chains that had once dragged both the cuckoo and Khulai himself down. There was the mark of death’s hand on Valjean’s shoulder already.

And the shadow of it on Javert’s. 

He wondered if the cuckoo realised it. No, that didn’t matter either: whether the cuckoo did or not, he would follow the dove, when the time came.

France’s changes had never concerned Khulai much – he was rarely touched by them. Yet now those changes had reached their hands deep within him.

He would mourn the cuckoo when he died. He would mourn the dove too. And though he knew that it was likely for them to go to different places when their time came for them, he could not help but hope – briefly, wistfully – that he would see them again.

*

**_September_**  
****  
When he had first heard the news of Jean Valjean’s fall, Tristan hadn’t thought much about it. He didn’t know the man very well, after all, and – as M. Duval jibed at him once – he was far too young to understand the implications of such a fall for an old man. But as the months passed, he noticed that a certain weight, a dark cloud which was almost like dread but far more resigned, was settling around the main members of the cabinet.

So when he heard that M. Javert had resigned his post, Tristan decided to do something. Quietly, as unobtrusively as possible, he began to take even more and more of M. Frey and M. Philippe’s workload onto himself. He had already been doing more after Louis-Jérôme’s suicide anyway, so it wasn’t much trouble. Especially since neither of them seemed to have noticed it.

It was only a few months later that he realised that he wasn’t the only person with such plans; that, in fact, the other person taking M. Frey and M. Philippe’s work was also taking on Mme. Frey and Mme. Pontmercy’s. How he managed to worm his way into the latter’s huge organisation that oversaw every single charity in France was a mystery that Tristan still hadn’t managed to solve. 

M. Duval was sitting on the windowsill of his own office at the headquarters of _Ministre des Affaires éstrangères_ at the Quai d’Orsay. His back was to Tristan, facing outside with his legs swinging in mid-air. Tristan wondered, vaguely, how many interns in his office had almost had a heart attack when they saw him like this. Then he wondered if M. Duval _had_ interns in his office – he didn’t seem the sort to have the patience to deal with them.

“They’re really bad at dealing with death,” M. Duval was saying. “Marius’s particularly crap at it, but I can’t do anything with that end. And de Courfeyrac has probably taken care of that. So that leaves everyone else to me.”

He tilted his head backwards, giving Tristan an upside-down grin. “Or so I thought.”

“Why?” Tristan asked, dragging one of the chairs over to the window so he didn’t have to stand around like a particularly awkward and misplaced potted plant.

“Same reason why you did it,” M. Duval shrugged. When Tristan blinked at him, he sighed, shifting on the windowsill so he was sitting with his long legs sprawled on top of it instead of outside, leaning against the frame.

“We’re the two people in the government who never had many dealings with Valjean directly,” M. Duval explained. “Yeah, we’ll mourn him when he dies. But we haven’t been affected by the guy like the rest of them have, so…” He trailed off, and shrugged again.

Tristan stared down at his hands. It was uncanny, really, how well M. Duval could read him. That was precisely his own reasoning when he’d decided to take care of work matters for the two he could.

“Still, I’m pretty surprised about you,” M. Duval said. When Tristan’s head jerked up, there was a smirk curving up the other man’s lips. “Thought you didn’t have the spare time for more work.”

“Huh?”

“Charani came back to Paris, didn’t she? Weren’t you wooing her or something like that?”

“What?” Tristan gaped. “No! She’s _seventeen_ , Monsieur! She’s way too young for such a thing.”

M. Duval stared at him. There was a very odd look on his face, as if Tristan had started speaking German or English in the middle of a French sentence. Tristan opened his mouth, before he could ask anything, M. Duval spoke.

“Right, right,” he said, shaking his head. “I forgot.”

“ _And_ ,” Tristan continued. “She’s very busy fighting for the rights of her people. That’s a noble cause. The last thing I want is to distract her – or , God forbid – deter her from her path.”

“Okay, okay,” M. Duval said, raising both hands up in surrender. “I get it. Not a cradle robber. Plenty of spare time.”

Tristan huffed. He resisted the urge to cross his arms. Honestly, he was getting really sick of how easily M. Duval could unsettle him. He was getting even sicker about not being able to do anything about it. 

After a moment, he looked at the older man again. “Why do you say that they’re bad at dealing with death?” he asked quietly. He had his own suspicions, but he wanted to hear what M. Duval thought; to see if the other man agreed with it.

“You mean, aside from the mopey faces that they have whenever they think no one’s looking?” M. Duval raised an eyebrow.

“Not that,” Tristan waved a hand. “But the reason behind those ‘mopey faces’, if you will.”

“Mm,” M. Duval said. He raised his cigarette to his lips again, turning his head to blow smoke out of the window before flicking the butt over to follow it.

“Thing is, for all they like to say that they do what they do for the sake of the _country_ ,” he drawled out the last word, “the truth is that they’re actually doing it for a select few.”

He paused. “Or, well, in some of their cases, those select few are the ones who get them going to do what they do.”

Tristan blinked. “I don’t understand,” he said tentatively.

“Didn’t expect you to. That explanation was crap.”

Drawing one leg up, M. Duval dropped his arm on top of his knee, fingers tapping the air restlessly. “Think about constructing a building,” he instructed. “First you need a scaffolding, yeah? The metal framework that goes up before any of the cement gets poured or the stones get shipped?”

“Yes,” Tristan nodded.

“With Philippe, Mathieu, and Marius, that metal framework is Valjean,” he said. When Tristan blinked, he smirked. “They don’t really _need_ the scaffolding anymore – they have plenty of reason to do what they do. But there’s always that fear, you know? That when you move the metal out, the whole building would collapse?”

Before Tristan could reply, M. Duval was already barrelling on.

“Then you have Javert and Cosette,” he continued. “For them, the situation is much, much worse. Valjean’s not the scaffolding – he’s the keystone itself. You break it or remove it, and they go crashing down.”

He slapped his hands together in a sudden _crack_. “Boom,” he said. “Everything goes. All at once.”

“Do you think that they…” Tristan stopped. He couldn’t even _think_ about that possibility, much less voice it.

“That those two would off themselves once Valjean’s dead?” M. Duval asked. When Tristan nodded, wide-eyed, M. Duval laughed.

“Cosette’s not going to do that,” he grinned. “Her plans stretch ten or so years in the future. She’s not going to drop all of it to follow her dad; she’s built sturdier than that.”

Tristan looked down at his hands. “What about M. Javert?” he asked.

“No clue,” M. Duval said. When Tristan raised an eyebrow, he laughed again. “Fine, I’m _pretty_ sure I know what he’s going to do. But I’m not going to tell you.”

“Why not?” Tristan asked, barely managing at the last moment to keep the petulance out of his tone.

“You have this habit of thinking me omniscient.” M. Duval’s grin widened. “I’d hate to break you out of it by being wrong.”

_It’s hard not to think of you like that when you can peel people apart as easily as oranges to see what they think_ , Tristan almost said. But he swallowed that back, because it wasn’t important, and he knew it would just lead to M. Duval teasing him again.

Instead, he said: “What about Mme. Frey?”

“Azelma?” M. Duval’s drumming of his own thigh quickened for a moment before he sighed. “She’s kind of like all of them combined, honestly. Valjean’s her scaffolding, and she has her keystone separate from that.”

Ducking his head down, he chuckled. “Difference is that her keystone isn’t Valjean. It’s Javert.”

“Oh,” Tristan said. That made sense, he supposed. He wasn’t sure – despite Mme. Frey being M. Frey’s wife, he had never really spoken to her as much or as frequently as he did with her husband. 

It just reminded him of the distance between him and the rest of them again. Even though he knew that distance was the reason why he could help them _and_ the reason why he would even care to, it still grated. Especially since there really wasn’t anything he could actually do about it.

Dragging his hand through his hair, he slid down the chair and stared up to the ceiling. “I don’t know how it is that you can see people with such clarity, Monsieur,” he said. “It doesn’t seem like it’s a skill I’m capable of learning.”

M. Duval snorted. “You forgot that I’ve known them for far longer than you have, kid. You work with them for a few more years, and I’m pretty sure that you’ll figure them out as well.”

Tristan shook his head. 

Swinging his legs over the windowsill, M. Duval stood up. He walked over to Tristan’s chair, hands dropping onto the top of the back, looming over him.

“But let me give you another hint to help you figure them out,” he said. He smirked with only one side of his mouth. “The worst thing about this entire crappy situation? Valjean’s dying _slow_.”

“What?” Tristan didn’t understand. If anything, he thought that a slow death would be better – it would give M. Valjean plenty of time to say goodbye.

“We were revolutionaries not so long ago, you know,” M. Duval drawled. “When you stand on the frontline like that, you get used to the idea that someone you love would be in danger of a violent death. One stray bullet…”

He extended his finger and slowly raised it to press against the side of his own head. “Bam.”

Tristan flinched.

M. Duval noticed, of course, but his grin only widened until he was baring his teeth. “But, you see, we’ve won. We’ve won a lot since we started. There’s peace now. Everything’s supposed to be peachy. But Valjean is still going to die, because death is a shitty bastard like that, and _that’s_ a hard thought to get used to.”

Suddenly, Tristan understood: all of the pieces snapped together at once. 

“They can’t save him,” he whispered, eyes wide. “No… no matter how much they help the country, no matter how much they save it, they can’t save _him_.”

“There you go,” M. Duval clapped him on the shoulder. “Told you that it’s not that hard.”

Tearing himself away from those piercing dark eyes, Tristan stared at his hands. He understood now, and his heart ached deep in his chest for it. Could it really be that simple? Could it _really_ be that selfish and egoistical? He bit hard on the inside of his cheek.

He didn’t want to believe it was, but it just seemed so _true_.

“I don’t think I want to learn after all,” he whispered.

Walking back to his windowsill, M. Duval swung himself up on it. He dropped his head onto his drawn-up knee, and gave Tristan a crooked, lopsided smile.

“It’s not part of your job description to learn,” he said. “Your job is to find someone who can do it for you.”

Tristan nodded. He took a deep breath and stood up, bowing jerkily towards M. Duval. “Thank you,” he said. 

Of course he knew that M. Philippe and the others were flawed. But surely, _surely,_ they couldn’t be so selfish, so blind about themselves?

He needed time to think about this. He headed for the door.

“Hey,” M. Duval said. Tristan turned.

The older man looked at him from out of the corner of his eyes. “One last thing,” he said quietly. “Remember what all of them always say? Everyone has a side to their own story.”

Something must have betrayed Tristan’s confusion, because M. Duval chuckled, shaking his head. “Every pair of eyes see something different, kid,” he said. “You don’t have to take my word for it.”

And just like that, M. Duval knocked the ground out from Tristan’s feet again, sending him careening down an abyss of sheer confusion. He blinked. Opened his mouth, and then closed it.

“Thank you,” he said again, and fled the room.

As he walked down the hallways, nodding to the various officers who greeted him, he carefully bit back a growl of frustration. He shoved his hands inside his pockets to hide the way they were clenching and unclenching, for good measure.

He would _never_ figure M. Duval out. And, worst of all, he didn’t even know why he wanted so badly to _try_.

*

**_October_**  
****  
Mama was sad again. She was smiling throughout M. Chastain’s visit, and she laughed and clasped his hands tightly in hers when he told her that he was promoted to Head Guard at Rochefort – at the prison that no one liked talking about – since he saw her last. But once M. Chastain had left, the smile had slipped from Mama’s face.

Jeanne was old enough to know why. She didn’t understand it exactly, but she _knew_ – Grandpapa was sick again, so very sick that he had to go to Aunt Azelma’s hospital and so Mama couldn’t bring her to his house for a visit like they usually did at this time.

Death was something Jeanne vaguely understood. When she had been six years old, Papa’s grandfather had died. She didn’t remember it very well, but there were days that Mama and Papa tried to smile for her and her little brother Michel. Jeanne hated those smiles – they never reached Mama and Papa’s eyes, and made her parents look like some of the badly-made dolls on shop windows.

She knew that Grandpapa was dying. He would go one day and he wouldn’t come back. But Grandpapa still could smile with his eyes whenever she visited him, so she wasn’t particularly worried about him. She was more worried about Mama.

Especially when Mama began to be so caught up by her sorrow that she no longer realised that Jeanne was in the room. Jeanne cleared her throat, and Mama blinked. She wiped at her eyes, and gave Jeanne the smile she hated again.

“Hey, baby girl,” she said. Even though Jeanne had gained a little sister, her parents never got out of the habit of calling her that. She had stopped trying to protest long ago, though she had the vague idea that she’d try much harder when she was older.

“Is something the matter?” Mama asked. 

Jeanne shook her head. She walked forward, reaching out to take Mama’s hand. She hadn’t reached her growth spurt yet – it would take another few years, Aunt Azelma said – but she was tall enough to reach Mama’s shoulder now, and strong enough to tug her over to the couch.

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” she said, and couldn’t help but add a little scoff at the end. She gave Mama the brightest smile she could, though, to show that she wasn’t angry or anything like that. “But you’re very sad. I don’t want you to be sad.”

“Oh,” Mama said. She gave a small laugh, her shoulders shaking, and she rubbed at her eyes again. “I’m sorry, Jeanne. I didn’t think that I was being obvious about it.”

“I’m not a baby like Gabrielle or an idiot like Michel,” Jeanne pointed out, rolling her eyes. “Of course I noticed.’

“Your brother isn’t an idiot,” Mama chastised. But she looked distracted, so Jeanne shelved away her protest that, yes, she did love her brother, but Michel trusted _everyone_ and was still small enough that it was dangerous for him, so that made him an idiot.

Jeanne hesitated. She had had a plan when she had first came down to the living room – she wasn’t here to _eavesdrop_ or anything – but it was just _say something to make Mama less sad_. Now that Mama was here, paying full attention to her, she didn’t know what to say.

Papa had once told her that, sometimes, words weren’t enough. Words were important, of course, because he and Mama managed to help Uncle Mathieu and Uncle Philippe create a new government and get rid of the old one, but some things words just could not touch. Jeanne didn’t really believe him, but maybe that advice could work this time. Papa knew Mama best, after all.

She threw her arms around her mother’s neck, and held on tightly.

“What’s wrong?” Mama asked immediately, though her arms did come around to wrap around Jeanne’s chest. “Are you alright?”

“I’m okay,” Jeanne said, trying to make sure she was speaking clearly even when her face was buried in Mama’s neck. Mama always smelled so _nice_. Jeanne was sure that her mother smelled better than anyone else’s, especially her friends’.

“You know that you can tell me if there’s anything wrong,” Mama said. 

When Jeanne pulled away a little so she could look at her, Mama had an encouraging smile on her face, and her hand was stroking through Jeanne’s hair slowly and gently. Jeanne sighed, shaking her head.

“Nothing’s wrong with me,” she said. “But Mama, you’re sad. And I’m here to make you feel better.”

Mama blinked at her.

“I’m the oldest,” Jeanne pointed out even though Mama surely already knew that. “Whatever that is bothering you, I am the best to help with it. I’ll understand better than Michel or even Nicolas.” She didn’t include Gabrielle or Élise – they were babies still; they understood nothing.

“Oh, Jeanne,” Mama breathed. She leaned in, and pressed a soft, gentle kiss onto Jeanne’s hair. “This isn’t…this isn’t something like homework or someone who said something you disagreed with in class.”

Jeanne huffed. “I _know_ that,” she said. Belatedly, she realised that sounding irritated wasn’t going to help Mama feel better, so she tried again. 

“I know that, Mama. You don’t have to explain anything to me, or try to make me understand.” When Mama hesitated, Jeanne wrapped her arms around her again.

“Grandpapa’s going to leave soon and not come back, and you’re sad about that,” she said. Some kind of instinct kept her voice low – she was practically whispering into Mama’s hair. “You don’t have to say anything.”

When Mama still didn’t react, Jeanne tried again. “Papa said that there are times when words are too small. I know my arms aren’t very big. I know I’m not very big either. But I don’t like seeing you sad, Mama. So I…”

She stopped talking. It was hard to when she could hear her mother’s breathing started to hitch; the tiny little sounds that Jeanne herself made when she was trying to hold back sobs. She nearly panicked for a moment before she remembered something Mama always did whenever she was upset.

Slowly, carefully, she rubbed her hand over Mama’s back.

“Oh, Jeanne,” Mama said, the name barely audible. “My sweet, sweet girl.”

Mama kissed her temple again. But her arms tightened around Jeanne, and the tiny hitching sobs seemed to stop. Jeanne didn’t feel any tears, but that was okay – it would be weird if Mama started crying on her anyway. She just held her mother tighter and continued rubbing her back.

Grandpapa loved Mama a lot, Jeanne knew – she could see it every time they talked to each other. Mama loved him a lot too. But even when Grandpapa was gone, Mama would still have Papa. She would still have Michel and Gabrielle.

Most importantly, she would have Jeanne. She wasn’t Grandpapa even though she was named after him – it would be kind of really strange if she was – but she could help Mama like Grandpapa always had. She _would_ help Mama feel better, if only for a little while.

She was the oldest, after all.

*

**_November_**  
****  
“They’ll call it the end of an era, you know,” Mathieu said.

Philippe turned away from the multiple blocks of floating text that surrounded him – despite Duval and Tristan’s best and supposedly hidden efforts, there was always _plenty_ for the Président to do – to face his brother.

Mathieu was similarly surrounded by words. But his eyes were staring straight in front of him into nothingness.

“What will they call that?” Philippe asked quietly. He suspected.

“M. Jean Valjean’s death,” Mathieu said, lilting his voice to imitate the newscasters. He pressed one fist against his eye, the other batting at the projector to switch it off. His head thudded hard against the back of his chair. “That’s what they’ll call it.”

Switching off his projector as well, Philippe took the three steps he needed to stand in front of Mathieu. He reached out and brushed his fingers over his brother’s shoulder, down his arm, and breathed a slight sigh of relief when Mathieu squeezed his fingers back.

“Let the historians say what they will,” he said softly. “By the time they start writing, we won’t care anymore.”

“I can’t,” Mathieu said viciously. His eyes snapped open, fever-bright and staring into Philippe’s. “What if they start saying things about him that are not true? What if they start thinking of him as… as some sort of symbol or figure instead of a man? Then all that we’ve done will be useless.”

When Mathieu surged upwards to his feet, Philippe barely had enough time to step back out of the way. His brother started pacing the room.

“We need to start gathering testimonials now,” he said. “Hire someone to write a biography. Get interviews from people. Make sure that there is at least _one_ good record of M. Jean that survives. Something that people in the future can look at and say, this is what this man was like.”

“Mathieu,” Philippe tried.

“Should’ve gotten this done years ago,” Mathieu said. Philippe would be insulted that he was being ignored if he didn’t know that Mathieu genuinely hadn’t heard him; he never did when he was in this kind of mood. “Shouldn’t have left it until now. I’m such an _idiot_.”

Striding forward, Philippe caught Mathieu’s hand before he could reach for the holographic projector or, worse, head out of the house to storm back to Palais Bourbon. He wrapped both arms around his brother, holding onto him as tightly as he could, locking him in place.

“You’ve done plenty for him,” he said quietly. “You’ve done _plenty_.”

“No, no,” Mathieu shook his head, hair flying all over his face. “Not enough. Not enough. It’s not…”

“It’s not your fault,” Philippe said.

“There’s a recent study done, did you read it?” Mathieu asked. “About the average life expectancy of people in France?”

Slowly, Philippe nodded. He knew where this was going, too, but Mathieu needed to get his thoughts out before Philippe could even help him sort them out.

“It’s over a hundred, you know,” Mathieu said. He had stopped struggling, going completely still with his eyes staring straight ahead. “People live to over a hundred normally. But M. Jean is only sixty-six.”

He whirled around, the movement so sudden that Philippe couldn’t even begin to stop it. But Mathieu didn’t try to leave – instead, he gripped Philippe’s upper arms with both hands, nails digging into muscle through skin and cloth.

“If I’d done something earlier,” he hissed out, “if we’d gotten the revolution started earlier… If- if we’d joined the barricades, talked to them. Gotten them sorted out somehow. _Something_. Then he wouldn’t have—”

Mathieu stopped. He let out a choked sound. “I should’ve _done better_ ,” he continued. His hands shifted from Philippe’s arms to his chest, practically clawing out the buttons. “I would’ve been _nothing_ if not for him and I didn’t… I didn’t…”

His breath hitched. He fell silent. Philippe waited a moment or two more before he shifted, wrapped his arm around Mathieu’s shoulders and tipped his head up.

“Look at me,” he said, keeping his voice soft.

Another moment’s pause. Then Mathieu lifted his head up. His eyes were still wild, dry and red-rimmed both, as he met Philippe’s gaze.

“Do you blame Azelma for not being able to save him?” 

“What?” Mathieu jerked. Philippe held on tighter, refusing to let him go. “That’s… that’s ridiculous.”

“It’s her hospital,” Philippe countered. He kept his voice even, almost monotonous. “It’s her healthcare services. All of that is under her purview. If her doctors cannot save M. Jean, then isn’t it her fault?”

“No!” Mathieu shook his head hard. “She tried her best. God, Philippe, you know that. You’ve seen how hard she tried. She even travelled to the rest of Europe to visit the hospitals and elder-care centres to see if they had a solution. She…”

He shook his head again.

“So did you,” Philippe said softly. “You did everything you could, too.”

“Not the same thing,” Mathieu denied immediately. “It’s not…”

Slowly, Philippe sank his hand into Mathieu’s hair. The blond strands had grown long enough to need to be tied back, and he loosened the ponytail and tossed the elastic band away. His nails scraped over Mathieu’s scalp. 

“Tell me how it’s not the same,” he said. 

“I—” Mathieu started. After a moment, he shuddered hard, his forehead pressing against Philippe’s shoulder. The only sound in the room was his harsh, rasping panting.

He had always been far too clever to be caught up by his own lies, his own illusions. Philippe smiled. He closed his eyes and stroked through Mathieu’s hair again.

“Go ahead and find someone to write that biography,” he said quietly. “But don’t do it out of guilt. Don’t do it because you think that you’ve done something wrong, and it’s your way of making up for whatever mistake you think you’ve made.” 

“How…” Mathieu swallowed. He nudged Philippe slightly in the ribs, and Philippe pulled back. “How do you remain so calm?”

Smiling, he gently squeezed Mathieu’s shoulder. “Your world changed when you saw those records of the Arras trial,” he reminded. “Whereas mine…

“Mine changed when _you_ showed them to me, Mathieu.”

“That’s practically the same thing,” Mathieu said, blinking.

Philippe shook his head. “He was your catalyst,” he said. “But mine is and has always been _you_.”

Mathieu opened his mouth. But Philippe wasn’t going to let him speak; wouldn’t let him castigate himself further.

“I’ll mourn him,” he admitted. “He has always been so kind. He has touched so many lives. But his touch had always been transmitted through yours.”

“Oh,” Mathieu said. He stood there for a moment, his eyes losing focus again as he processed Philippe’s words. Philippe waited, letting his arm be a solid weight on his brother’s shoulder.

“Sorry.”

Swallowing back his laugh, Philippe rolled his eyes. He made the gesture exaggerated, overdramatic, and grinned when Mathieu glared at him.

“How many times have I done this to you?” he asked. “Let me repay the favour just once.”

Then, before Mathieu could protest, Philippe pushed his face down onto his shoulder, and held it there. Then he grabbed Mathieu’s arms one after the other, holding them by the wrists to one side.

“Just let me do this for you.”

After a moment, Mathieu sighed. He nodded. “Couch?” he asked.

“’Course.”

Philippe led him there. He didn’t let go even as they both sat down, instead squeezing Mathieu even tighter to his chest. His hand continued to stroke through his brother’s too-long hair.

There had been so many times throughout the years that he had leaned upon Mathieu as his rock and foundation; so many that he had stopped knowing how to count them all long ago. And though he knew that Mathieu was stronger, though he knew that he had found someone else whom he could lean upon as well, Philippe could be a rock for him too.

It was the least he could do.

*

**_December_**  
****  
Despite Javert’s continuous protests, Valjean eventually got his way: he was discharged from the hospital and allowed to go back home. That came with a caveat, of course – his and Javert’s room in the house on Rue Plumet was already set up with the machines that were needed to keep track of his condition.

When they reached the house, Javert stepped out of the car. He bent, picking Valjean up with one arm under his knees and the other around his shoulders. It was easy, far too easy, for him to hold Valjean in his arms like this. The other man had lost so much weight that his bones were practically jutting out of his skin. 

Valjean’s eyes were half-lidded – he had dozed off sometime during the trip – and Javert squashed down the panic that threatened at the edge of his mind at the sight. He shifted his grip until he could press his fingertips on Valjean’s wrist, keeping track of his slow, steady pulse as he took the steps into the house.

He laid Valjean on the couch. Even though he knew he should be careful to not wake him – Valjean needed his rest, he always needed his rest these days – Javert could not help but lean in and kiss him. He drew in as small a breath as he could from Valjean’s exhale, locking it deep in his lungs, before he went to retrieve the wheelchair from the car. Then he leaned in, pressing buttons on the dashboard to send the car back to Marius and Cosette’s house.

“That’s not fair,” Valjean said the moment Javert closed the door and set the wheelchair against the doorway of the living room.

Javert blinked. “What?”

Slowly, Valjean smiled. His eyes were still bright despite the dark circles under and the heavy lines around them. Maybe they were brighter because of those things. Javert had stopped trying to figure it out long ago.

“Do you remember when I first carried you over the threshold of the house?” Valjean asked. He chuckled softly. “It’s not fair for you to turn the tables and not have me awake for it.”

Unbidden, Javert found his lips twitching into a smile. Even so faded, Valjean could still do that.

He strode over to the couch, leaning over the back of it to peer into Valjean’s eyes. Cupping a cheek with his hand, he kissed Valjean again, soft and slow and sweet. Valjean made a small sound, pleased, and his hand rose, splaying against Javert’s chest. His fingertips brushed the edges of the gunshot wounds he no longer needed to see in order to find.

Javert pulled away when he could hear Valjean start to fight to breathe. He rolled himself over the couch, dropping down to sit on it with his back against the side. Gently, he wrapped his arm around Valjean’s shoulders, tugging the other man close until his back was to Javert’s chest, and Javert could engulf him entirely within his arms.

Last year, he couldn’t have done that. Last year, it was Valjean who held him this way.

When Valjean’s breathing evened back out, Javert pressed a kiss onto his temple. “I’ll carry you over the threshold again tomorrow,” he promised. “And I’ll make sure that you’re awake then.” 

Valjean laughed. The back of his hand brushed over Javert’s cheek, over the beard that was surely unkempt by now but which Javert couldn’t be bothered with. “You don’t have to indulge an old man.”

“I like indulging this old man,” Javert insisted. He didn’t say, _if we’re doing that tomorrow, then you can’t die tonight_. He didn’t want to ruin the mood. And Valjean probably knew what he was thinking anyway.

Pressing his cheek against Javert’s chest, Valjean let out a soft sigh. His hand found Javert’s, fingers tangling together.

They sat there like that, Valjean’s warm body curled up against his. Javert closed his eyes.

“Hungry?” Do you want me to get you something to eat?”

“Mm, no,” Valjean said. His eyes were falling shut again, and he yawned. “I’m home, and you’re here. That’s all I need.”

_Home_. Javert’s heart ached. _I don’t want to die in the hospital,_ Valjean had said. _It’s a beautiful place, Azelma, and your heart is in every inch. But if I am to die, I want to do it at home_.

It had taken all of Javert’s strength to stop himself from yelling _you’re not going to die_ like a child. All of his will to not fall to his knees and beg like it would make a difference.

But he knew. He suspected the moment he saw Valjean in the hospital right after his fall. He knew when Valjean’s hips didn’t start to heal properly afterwards.

“I’m here,” he said instead. “We’re home.”

His eyes burned, but he swallowed back the tears. If he allowed them to fall, he was sure that they would be red. His heart felt like it was being shredded, and the blood had to go somewhere.

Valjean tipped his head up. Javert kissed him, and prayed to a God that he found harder and harder to believe in that Valjean would not taste salt on his tongue.

_End, Really for Absolutely Certain This Time_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Total word count for both _all sinners crawl_ and _lessons exquisitely crafted_? Nearly 300k. The latter was written between November 2015 to 19 March 2016, excluding December when I was on vacation. 
> 
> I’m not writing anything else for this AU. Cross my heart and hope to die if I lie. I think if I write more, it’ll kind of be like beating a dead horse. Or, well, drifting so far away from canon that I might as well be writing original fic. Sob.
> 
> This AU has taken over my life and I love it so much. I also love everyone who has been with me throughout this journey, especially for this particular fic because it’s almost entirely about this world and these characters that I have created. Thank you guys so, so much. You have no idea how much your comments mean to me. They’re encouragement to continue writing, and I have learned _so much_ when writing these two fics. (I never knew how to plot for long fics before.) So. Yes.
> 
> (I'm right now in Japan and I will get to all your comments soon I LOVE YOU ALL.)


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